Terps

The downside to waging wars in countries other than Great Britain, Australia, and Canada is that the local people generally do not speak the same language as the American soldiers. This same problem occurs within the United States when soldiers from New England go to the South, when soldiers from the South go to the Southwest, and when soldiers from Iowa go anywhere outside of the Mid-West. While ancient armies spent enough time in the lands of the people they conquered to learn the languages and customs, the armies of the Global War on All things Bad and Terrible decided to rely on the use of interpreters, or terps.
The qualifications to be an interpreter were very strict and had multiple tiers. In order to achieve the first tier, one had to be able to speak the local language, smell like the inside of a gym bag full of dirty jockstraps, and speak at least one phrase or five curse words of English. These phrases were frequently taken from rap videos.
The first interpreter LT Fats used on a patrol told him that a local shopkeeper was trying to tell him that "He love at wayn you cole heem beeg poe-pah." This was after the interpreter carried on a five minute conversation with the shopkeeper during which he bought a kibab, slapped four different children, and attempted to trade the platoon radio/telephone operator for the shopkeeper's daughter.
"I hate my interpreter," Fats complained to Ox and Juden. "And I think I need to get a new RTO that doesn't look like a 12-year old. I wish I had yours, Juden. He's good."
This was true. Juden's interpreter was applying to be a second tier interpreter. The qualifications included all of those necessary for a level one with the additional requirements to understand enough English to recite an entire rap song, complain about working too much, and use at least one personalized catchphrase. Furthermore, second tier interpreters smelled like a gym bag full of dirty jockstraps onto which a bottle of cheap cologne had been spilled.
When Juden took his interpreter to the same shopkeeper, he discovered that what the man actually said was, "I need you halp me. He say he see me tonight three day goyn (which Ox eventually learned meant "three nights ago"), I should tack vakeshun. Wan me bring you nice cologne from Baghdad? You be beeg peempon, spannin' da jeez. " Additionally, Juden's interpreter was able to steal a live sheep from the man, only to have to return it when the soldiers couldn't find room to fit it in any of their vehicles.
"Doesn't matter," Juden told Fats. "Ox has the only one who actually speaks English."
"True, but he can't walk more than fifty feet without passing out," Ox stated. "He'd be useless on patrol."
Ox used the interpreter CPT Hugnis chose for all of his sheik meetings. Nicknamed Daud, this obese interpreter could translate accurately for an hour before requiring medical assistance to continue breathing. When not working, Daud spent his time evenly split between the chow tent and the medical tent, with the occasional break in his pattern to tell LT Ox that all the interpreters were going to quit.
"I'm very sorry, seer, but all of terps say we leave today if we do not have longer vacations," Daud would claim every three days.
"Well, as it is, you work two weeks and get two weeks off," LT Ox would remind him, "And your salary is ten times the Abu Dahbu average. Furthermore, if you quit now, we'll simply toss you out of the back of a truck in the middle of the population whose demands you've been misinterpreting. Maybe they'll offer you a better job, or maybe they'll behead you on camera and send the video to your families in Baghdad. Up to you."
"Oh no, seer, we won't quit," Daud would quickly respond. "I jest need more time to take care of sick mother. She very worried about me and has cancer."
"Right," nodded LT Ox after a few similar requests. "Isn't this the same mother who I've given you extra vaction time for three times and whose funeral you've attended twice?"
"No, is a different mother," Daud responded, "On my father's side."
"Ok, I'll do my best," Ox replied, having no intention to give the matter another thought.
"Thank you, sir," Daud saluted. "You tha real Slam Sheedy, and owl other Slam Sheedy's be jest eemadeeting."
"Word to your mother on your father's side," Ox saluted back with a gang sign, or with what his pale-skinned rural Bible-belt upbringing made him think a gang sign might look like.
This pattern of misunderstanding, resignation threats, and rap greeting continued until an entirely new type of interpreter arrived at the outpost. This one was not in the tier system. He was in entirely different category. Zenzem was a naturalized U.S. citizen, having served in the army to become so.
"Ox, we've got a U.S. citizen with a secret security clearance to translate for us now," CPT Hugnis directed. "I'm sick of not understanding a damn word these stinky bastards are saying, so I'm claiming him for the rest of my patrols. Got it?"
Ox made it so, and for every single patrol CPT Hugnis attended for the rest of that day, Zenzem went along.
"Dammit, Ox, I'm never taking that dipshit on patrol with me again," CPT Hugnis fumed, storming into the command post. "I couldn't understand a word he was saying. Didn't look like any of the sheiks could understand him either. They all made faces at us like we had dicks on our foreheads the whole time. I started to think I did have a dick on my forehead. I don't have a dick on my forehead, do I? I swear, if Juden's squad leaders drew a dick on my forehead, I'll..."
"There's no dick on your forehead, sir," Ox interupted.
"No balls?" Hugnis continued. "No ass, boobs, third eye, or other horrible thing that would make those sheiks stare at me like I ..."
"Sir, I promise there's nothing more on your face than the usual grime that accumulates on all of us while we reside in this God-forsaken country," Ox assured his commander. "After speaking with Daud and getting past the usual resignation threats, I've come to the conclusion that Zenzem is actually a bushman and speaks no Arabic."
"What the hell is a bushman?" CPT Hugnis asked.
Ox, the Ball company cultural expert, explained: "They are members of one of the few remaining African tribes untouched by western civilization. They speak a language that absolutely no one else in the world understands with a grammar structure unlike any dialect of any major language group. Zenzem's home language is no closer to Arabic than it is to English, Chinese, or Klingon."
"So you're saying he's useless to us?" CPT Hugnis asked.
"Less that useless, actually," Ox continued. "I took the liberty of calling the battalion interpreter manager to ask about Zenzem. According to ETO 22, we must treat all interpreters who are American citizens as an essential part of our intel gathering process. We must use his insite in our planning process and take him as our interpreter whenever we conduct meetings with sources. However, since his grasp of English is entirely based on the use of pronouns, simply attempting to understand his ramblings will take hours of our intel gatherers' time every day without providing any useful results."
"Zat way, zey went to zem, and zen zay said zey supposed to do zat sing," Zenzem explained to intel cell next door.
"Ox," CPT Hugnis sighed as he walked away, "I got a feeling this is going to be a long deployment."
"You got zat right, sir," Ox mumbled.

Formation of the Effects Tasking Order

The Roman Army at its height had the most massive logistical support system in the world. The regional governors in modern day Europe, Western Asia, and Northern Africa commanded their respective regions with the might of the legions whilst largely autonomous from Caesar. However, one Emperor by the name of Nero had a bad habit of micromanagement. An untrusting conspiracy theorist, he demanded that all governors provide specific reports for how much gold, grain, and other raw materials they were accumulating in their regions, great details on their expenditures, explanations for the projected second and third order effects of all expenditures, and extremely long reasoning essays for all requests to Rome for support. The scrolls of these reports were sent to Nero's library, where he would read over each in painstaking detail, then store the scrolls for later reference in large warehouses. After two weeks of reading, Nero would write an executive order dictating exactly what the governors were doing wrong, what they needed to fix, and how they were to fix it. These orders were called "Presencia Negotium Ordo" which translates roughly to Effects Tasking Orders. However, due to the frequency of his orders and the delay in travel for information, many of these orders would conflict, overlap, be delivered to the wrong governors, or simply become lost at sea or on the road.
Not wanting any order of the Emporer to be overlooked or confused, Nero directed scribes to write duplicate copies of all orders for the entire Roman world. These would be delivered by multiple routes to each governor, thus ensuring that all governors would receive their orders at least once, along with the orders for all other governors in the empire. In addition, at least two copies of those orders had to be sent back to Nero by different routes with each regional task marked in red ink (to Honor Jupiter) in order to acknowledge that each governor had recieved his orders and complied. Hence, the govenor of Macedon would receive the orders for the govenors of Gaul, Egypt, Germania, Greece, and every other small and large territory the Caesars before Nero conquered in the name of Rome, but would only mark with red ink the orders designated to Macedon, then send two copies back with his aforementioned reports.
The details in the reports and the PNOs consumed all of Rome's paper supply within the first ten months of this system, and soon created such a demand for paper that Nero directed Egypt to change its tribute commodity from grain to papyrus. The warehouses containing the orders, returned orders, reports, and blank paper for new reports were overflowing, thus prompting Nero to rent out dwelling places within the city to provide additional space.
One night, during a particularly long session of nitpicking the reports following the twenty-second order, Nero decided to take a quick nap at his desk. He had a bad dream about the new Christian sect intercepting his PNOs and burning them, waking him with a jolt. That jolt knocked his candlestand onto a stack of returned PNOs and immediately engulfed them in flame. Nero's lyre laid just beyond the stack. Worried that the fire might damage his favorite instrument, he dove for it, scattering the flaming papyrus around the apartment floor, igniting several other stacks. Realizing that there would be no way to single-handedly stop this fire, Nero ran from the dwelling, attempting to find help. However, seeing as he had rented out the entire apartment complex for paper storage, Nero could find no one to help him put it out. He ran to the marble steps of his palace, watching as the flames raged through the complex. Over the next five days, what would become known as the Magnum Incendium Romae, or the Great Fire of Rome destroyed three of the 14 districts of Rome and severely damaged seven others.
This was the first known distaster caused by the Effects Tasking Order, though the causes for other similar catastophes are closely linked to confusing and complex order systems. Xerxes' million man army of Persia was delayed for three days in Thermopylae by a paultry force of 300 Spartans and a few thousand other Greek farmers. Though conventional wisdom stated that this was due to the terrain coupled with the might of the Spartan phalanx, the actual problem was that the additional duty of all archers in the Persian army was to carry bundles of parchment containing orders and logistical records. It took three days to categorize and sort those orders, while the Spartans, a completely illiterate bunch who relied on simple spoken orders and decentralized leadership, butchered 20,000 Persian soldiers. When the archers were finally allowed to rain down barrages of arrows on the Greeks, the Spartans were weakened to a point that allowed a standard sized group of Immortals to easily finish off King Leonidas and his men.
The redundant and confusing report and order system that is the ETO reoccured in many forms throughout history. Grouchy was busy writing his consumption reports and checking off items from the lists of his tasks while Napoleon waited for him to reinforce the French at Waterloo. Charles of France received a directive sent two months before the battle of Agincourt stating "The dry climate you reported in August should result in firm ground on which to base a solid cavalry charge. Go forth, and wipe that Bastard Henry from the face of the Earth." Unfortunately for the French, the battle took place in October, when the freshly plowed and rained on battlefield was a mudpit. King Phillip II of Spain controlled his Armada via boat messenger from his palace, having never actually seen any of his ships. Thus, he did not realize that a galleon was not really a warship, but a Portugeuse merchant vessel poorly matched against British warships. Finally, the most complex form of the Effects Tasking Order was implimented by Field Marshall Montgomery to organize the largest airborne offensive in history.
Most historians agree that Operation Market Garden went smashingly well.

Tiger & Dale

The men who fought in World War II claimed the title "The Greatest Generation." From 1940-1945, approximately a tenth of the population served in the military, fighting the great scourge of Nazis and Imperial Japanese intent on conquering the world.
In the War on Terror, much like the War on Crime, War on Poverty, and War on Hunger (a victory in the U.S., only to spur a drawn out conflict with Obesity), approximately a tenth of the population was vaguely aware that anything remotely resembling a war was happening. No, most of the new generation, aptly nicknamed "The Pretty Good, if somewhat overweight, but at least better than our Hippie Parents Generation" barely understood that somewhere in the world, heavily armed and armored men and women were going out on patrol through remote areas, looking around, and returning to their bases to eat.
That was what happened most of the time. Those stationed at combat outposts had little else to do besides play video games, work out, or eat. Those stationed at the larger bases were fortunate enough to have large Morale and Welfare centers where they could play video games, work out, and eat. Sometimes those centers hosted Salsa nights. These were crazy swinging parties, or probably would have been if anyone had attended them. However, due to a Giblet Standing Order, stating that "Fraternization with female soldiers, particularly of the overweight Hispanic variety, is strongly discouraged and may incur the penalty of extreme ridicule," Salsa night never reached its full potential. Salsa nights may have been the most secret event held on any form of base ever, for in the fifteen months of deployment, only two Giblets ever attended. Their names were SGTs Tiger and Dale. SGT Dale was the Ball company armorer and philosopher. SGT Tiger was the Ball company's chemical sergeant, room assignment sergeant, third country national labor manager sergeant, and heterosexual life-mate to SGT Dale.
SGT Dale and SGT Tiger met just before deployment and the non-romance that ensued was neo-classic. Dale was a redneck who spent the majority of his youth smoking coppius amounts of cannibus and watching the history channel. The vast amount of knowledge he retained warranted at least a Masters Degree in random information, though Dale was clearly working on his dissertation. Tiger, an Afrimexican who looked like an Afriasian, had a chameleonic genetic mutation capable of completely changing his speech and mannerisms based entirely on the company in which he found himself. When with the officers, he was a cynical and elitist college grad. When hanging out with Black or Hispanic soldiers, he was ghetto bum who spoke fluent Ebonics. Rumors flew around Ball company that when directing the efforts of third country national laborers, he spoke Hindi, Pakistani, Farsi, and Arabic, all while applying too much cologne.
With Dale, however, Tiger found his true self. Dale ridiculed Tiger relentlessly for his multiple personalities, forcing Tiger to ridicule Dale for being an intelligent hillbilly. Soon, the conversations turned to other idiosyncrasies in the company, battalion, and army as a whole. In these exchanges, the unlikely duo found their respective equals. Both were united by a hatred for SSG Fugaysi, the extremely talkative supply sergeant. This hatred would later transition to CPT Hansel, who quickly noted that they were the two most competent NCOs in the army and placed the pair directly in his charge. Though initially a welcome change from SSG Fugaysi, CPT Hansel's constant death threats and occasional epileptic fits frustrated the two more than Fugaysi's logistics ramblings ever did. Also, because Hansel understood their effectiveness, he did what every good officer would do with good sergeants; he dumped every last bit of work that came his way on the pair, threatened them accordingly, and hid in his office watching pirated DVD collections of TV shows until the early hours of the morning. This pattern of behavior fueled the relationship between the two sergeants.
Tiger and Dale frequently complained, but always with a witty flare and never in lieu of doing their jobs. Both were possessed with an odd drive to accomplish any tasks assigned to them, and were successful despite their hatred of the job. Their stories about SSG Fugaysi entertained Hansel, their stories about Hansel entertained Ox, and their constant jokes about Juden's nose entertained everyone. Tiger and Dale were the heart and soul of the the company, as well the lungs, the kidneys, the intestines, the liver, the Achilles tendon, bone marrow, and anything else vital to normal bodily function but taken for granted until it's missing.
They were two hobbits from the shire who despite their bumblings still managed to save Middle Earth, if the word "Hobbits" was replaced by "Short NCOs," the word "Shire" was replaced by "South," the word "bumblings" was replaced by "complete lack of any recognition or reward system," and the phrase "save Middle Earth" was replaced by "keep Ball Company from resorting to cannibalism."

Hansel

West Pointers are socially awkward. So are ROTC cadets. So, too, are most OCS lieutenants. Nearly any officer who was not CPT Hansel was socially awkward. Hansel was not. Awkward does not begin to describe the state in which one could find Hansel. Most officers have difficulty avoiding military talk in pleasant conversation. Some officers have a habit of being a bit too controlling at a party, as is their nature at work. Hansel had difficulty engaging in any form pleasant converation, which also stemmed from his work.
When Hansel was a young platoon leader, he had been ordered with that platoon to replace a platoon in the South Pacific that had been expelled from the region for violating certain laws regarding animal cruelty and prostitution. All leadership of the outgoing platoon were occupationally executed, and all members of the platoon were kicked in the groin upon return to the U.S. Wanting to ensure that nothing of the sort would happen again, the brigade commander decided to personnally brief Lieutenant Hansel before he left.
"I swear to God, you little piece of pond scum, if you screw this pooch, I will eat your children," the colonel began.
"Sir, I don't have any children..." Hansel began to say, immediately regreting opening his mouth.
"Then I will rip off your arm, clone you with the DNA, let you raise that clone as your son, and then stick a bamboo rod through that child and eat him like a shishkabob. Don't ever contradict me again, you sack of shit." Hansel thought about the technical difficulties the colonel would have in the cloning process, and how expensive it would be, not to mention the obvious consideration that human cloning was still leaning toward the illegal side of the judicial fence, but decided he should just keep his mouth shut.
"If one of your soldiers decides it's a good idea to set a monkey on fire, I will burn down his house. If one of your NCOs decides it's a good idea to wink at a local girl, I'll gouge out his eye. If one so much as THINKS of hooking up with one, then I'll cut off his Johnson. If your platoon spits in the wrong direction, shits in the wrong pot, shaves in the wrong spot, or showers when it's not hot, I'll buy you a puppy, make you love it, then cook it and feed it to you."
Hansel thought about how he had always wanted a puppy growing up. He really didn't want a puppy anymore.
"Let me make this perfectly clear, to your puny little virgin ears, you sack of camel-spider shit," the commander continued, "I will desecrate the graves of your ancestors, smear feces on their headstones, scatter their ashes in your food, and MURDER YOU if you so much as speak with a local. Is that clear?"
Hansel was about to embark on a peace-keeping mission to help train local military forces and provide security for the area. He was not sure how this mission would be possible under his newly stated orders.
"Sir, I'm don't exactly understand how I will be able to accomplish my mission if I can't speak to the locals," Hanseled quietly stated.
"I will light a fire and burn the skin down the hatch and you'll be sorry and don't let me catch you little piece of donkey dung with my boot so far up your ass and taste my toes in your french fries with back in the old army I'd stick a bayonet in your gut and a butt-stroke to the head with the force of an Abrahms tank and cut your liver with a backwards slash and blood, guts, and pass the ammunition cause it's gonna be a long night!" His aids quickly placed a stick between the red-faced colonel's teeth and grabbed his arms as he broke into an epileptic fit. He spewed fluids from his eyes, nose, and mouth, growling as though he was hungering for Hansel's unborn children. One of the captains not immediately engaged in restraining the brigade commander rushed Hansel out of the room.
"I trust you understand the commander's intent," the diplomatic captain stated, as if Mr. Rogers had just explained what was going on in the neighborhood of make-believe. "Good luck!"
Young lieutenants in their first two years are essentially concrete in its liquid phase. Commanders, NCOs, and peers have the opportunity during this time to write their initials, put their handprints, or scrawl little messages in the that wet cement before it hardens. The giant ass-print that this colonel left would form the basis for Hansel's mannerisms for the rest of his military career.
CPT Hugnis might tell a subordinate to accomplish a task in a certain time by saying, "Ox, I need you to finish the inventory by this Friday. It's very important that we send up our report on time." Hansel, given the same situation, said, "Ox, if you don't finish the inventory by the end of this week, I'll beat you to death with your own binoculars and hang your dead, bleeding corpse on the walls to this base."
Ox finished the inventory in two weeks, with a final report that two sets of binoculars had mysteriously gone missing, signed out to the officers "CPT J. Hansel" and "LT P. Ox," respectively.

Juden

"Did I mention that my sister said hello?" Juden asked as he prepared to go on a patrol.

Ox only met Juden's sister once, and would never forget the occasion. He was still slightly traumatized.

Juden's sister looked nothing like Juden. She had blond, curly hair, a cute little nose, freckles, and a nice looking frame. Juden's hair was short, dark, and coarse, his nose was huge, his skin was vampire pale, and his frame... Well, it is possible that some women found his lanky build pleasing, but most of those were scared off by his personality.

Here, Juden and his sister were identical. The confrontational, to the point, painfully blunt mannerisms helped Juden in his job. He was actually very good at it, and possibly the best in the battalion. Juden wouldn't brag about that, but only because he was too busy bragging about how good looking he was. Similarly, Juden's sister wouldn't brag about going to Harvard for graduate school, but only because she was too busy crushing other people's souls.

Ox learned to keep quiet when Juden's sister was around. Within ten minutes of meeting him, Juden's sister accused Ox of being a racist, sexist, pedophile. Though no one in the house that day actually remembers why, it was the only time Ox ever recalled being accused of any of those things. He explained to Juden that talking to his sister was like being hit in the shins with a baseball bat by a girl scout who you thought was delivering cookies.

"Yeah, she can be that way," Juden replied. "I remember this one time when she was in girl scouts, she told me she had cookies and when I came into her room to steal them, she hit me in the shins with a baseball bat."

"Really?" Ox asked.

"No, but I was trying to sympathize." Juden did not really understand the concept of sympathy. "So, wanna button me up?" Juden also did not understand how homosexual most of his comments sounded when taken out of context.

"I really wish you wouldn't ask like that," Ox muttered as he fastened the back clasp on the custom bandoleer that was part of Juden's highly customized kit. "Doesn't the fact that you can't reach this thing totally negate the quick-release pull cord on your vest?"

"Yeah, but it really functional and comfortable," Juden reasoned, though he really just wore it because he thought it looked cool. "The risk of being trapped in a situation where I need to rapidly remove my vest is small next to the combat benefits of the Individual Maneuver and Battle Augmenting Deliberate Asset Supplement System, or I.M.a.B.A.D.A.S.S.

"If you say so," Ox sighed. The only "custom" items Ox had in his entire kit were a pair of gloves with hardened knuckles he'd stolen from Juden and a canteen pouch he'd modified to hold large amounts of candy. He told everyone that the candy was for the children of Abu Dahbu, which on at least one occasion was almost true, but Ox popped the grubby little thieve's hand with his knuckle gloves before it could open the candy pouch.

"Hearts and minds, my ass" Ox muttered.

"It's what I aim for," Juden replied, munching on some of Ox's candy. "Through my scope."

Token, The Elitist

Token was not a Nazi. He certainly wouldn't have been accepted by them if they knew that his blood contained more races than a track meet. He was far too kind to the Iraqis and far too trigger shy to have been an effective mass murderer. He had more of a heart than most Christians, which Ox thought was a total waste in an atheist.
But Token was an elitist. He was a classist, a eugenist, and staunch conservative. Absolutely nothing about Token made sense. He was fascinated in class divided societies like Rome, feudal Europe, India, and Washington State. The goal of breeding out stupidity was a religious mission to Token, though he also firmly believed that the most ignorant tend to do the most breeding. It was an uphill battle, he acknowledged, but he figured a good start was to find intelligent people and convince them to have as many children as possible.

"I figure wars, hard drug use, diabetes, AIDS, and gang violence help weed out many of the useless proles," Token used to share with Ox and Juden. "And the rest serve as an essential lower class labor force."

"So, things will sort themselves out, is that it?" Ox said in a perfect BBC English accent. Ox frequently spoke in a British accent when discussing matters of morality and politics with Token. It made him feel smarter and occasionally made his fellow lieutenant lose focus.

"Well, no, not really," Token continued. "You see, currently the proles are breeding far too rapidly and are producing a surplus of useless idiots that need to be pacified with increasingly strong injections of entertainment and fatty food. There was a time when all a town needed was a bowling alley, booze, and a barbecue to keep the people content. Now we need reality TV, billion dollar fast food joints, 24 hour news stations that focus 23 of those hours on slutty little no-talent starlets, and I mean really, it's not even a news network if you just focus on these flash-in-the-pan celebrities, you know, it's just a gossip network, which is sad that we pay more attention to gossip..."

"Right," interrupted LT Ox, sensing that Token had jumped like a hobo from his train of thought and was currently wandering barefoot towards the soup kitchen. "But without these proles, who would man the Army?" Ox liked to indulge Token's ideas. He didn't necessarily agree with him on any particular point, but Token's conversation was of the most intellectually stimulating Ox could find on the outpost. Conversations with Fats and Juden generally degraded into jokes about Fats' feet or mother and Juden's nose or sexual orientation, and it was harder to pretend like you were working when shouts about whorish women and gay men emanated from the room.

"Like I said," Token reminded Ox. "Lower class labor force."

"So we'll have our thinking done by cowards and our fighting done by fools," Ox stated, feeling intelligent for remembering the quote. Ox liked quoting historical figures, especially when those quotes were displayed on his computer screen while he waited for a battle to load on his video game. "Where do we fit into this?"

"We facilitate the means of appeasement," explained Token. "The regular ignorant public require many different and ever changing methods of appeasement. Soldiers, on the other hand, consistently require very little to appease them. Privates to Specialists just need people constantly thanking them for their service and calling them heroes when most haven't done anything to deserve it. Young sergeants need to be constantly told that they are leaders and that they are the backbone of the army. Senior Sergeants used to be a little more complicated, but fortunately we created our own lodge, the Secret Army Mason Club, to make the old farts think they have some power."

"Wait, I thought that was tied in some way to the Freemasons, the descendants of the Templars? Doesn't that secret society have some actual power?" Ox asked.

"Sure, if by power you mean the ability to enforce asinine uniform and haircut regulations," said Token. "Seriously, the British actors who get knighted by the queen are closer to the Templars than the SAMC."

Ox considered the thought, but secretly feared that if he ever mentioned his views on the club in public, hooded NCOs might sneak up to him in the night, surround him, and tell him that he wasn't authorized to wear his fleece cap while in uniform.

And Ox loved his fleece cap.

The Origin of Ox

LT Ox was not a good officer. He was a pretty pitiful platoon leader. He was a nice person and generally intelligent, but his constant assessment of tasks as useful or useless generally led him to a state of apathetic bliss in which nothing was accomplished and nothing ever changed. He believed in the phrase "Anything worth doing is worth doing well," but there were very few things he found worth doing. In fact, nearly every task assigned to LT Ox was was something he considered not worth doing, but avoiding and delaying the task was. Hence, he threw himself whole-heartedly into finding the best possible way to hide from the locals at the gate, diligently studied which tasks he could ignore without being disciplined for doing so, and expertly created massive distractions designed to redirect his subordinates' and superiours' collective attentions. His efforts constructed an environment in which for a significant portion of the deployment, CPT Hugnis suffered under the delusion that LT Ox was one of the hardest working and least complaining officers he had ever met. The only people Ox couldn't fool were his fellow lieutenants, who never said anything about his fantasy world of misdirection out of sheer amazement that he could keep the facade up for so long.
LT Ox was not always like this. In high school, he showed drive and potential. He got the best grades, won every class office he ran for, and lettered in football and basketball. He went to West Point with the plan to become the next Patton, and for almost half a semester he stayed on that track. It was rumored that at some point, jealous classmates slipped him copies of the movies Office Space and Van Wilder in an attempt to get him to tone down his efforts. Watching the former immediately subdued every bit of drive the young cadet ever had, leaving him wondering how glorious doing nothing could be. The latter left him spellbound, opening his eyes towards the pursuit of exceptional mediocrity. Ox was NEVER the regular guy. He was never the guy would didn't accomplish anything of note. He was the speaker when a speaker was needed. He was a leader when a leader was needed. He was the best at whatever he tried, and suddenly he realized that the one thing he had never tried was to be blissfully unsuccessful.
As it turned out, this pursuit turned out to be Cadet Ox's true calling. Be it grades, physical fitness, or general military bearing and appearance, Cadet Ox was the perfect example of adequacy. He may have been the most unaccomplished cadet ever to graduate from West Point, which was a true mark of pride for Ox. In an environment where the go-getter, push to succeed, harder right over easier wrong, duty-honor-country attitude made young men and women into leaders of character, Ox was a dull landmark of granite next to the shining crystal beacons.

Fats

Fats wasn't exactly fat. He was fairly average sized, in everything but his boots. Those were quite small. Juden and Token frequently commented on how small Fats' boots were, but never about how fat Fats wasn't. Mrs. Fats, Fats' mother, not Mrs. Fats, Fats' wife, was a devout Catholic woman who believed heartily in fasting as a form of pennance. She was very fat. This state was either due to her devout nature or her tendancy to gorge herself following each fasting session. Hoping that her son would not be as fat as her, she named him "Slim" and told him every day that he was her beautiful little boy, or her strong skinny man, or that his boots were really not that small. Then she would fast as pennance.
Fats grew at an average rate to an average height and average build, graduating from an average high school and an average ROTC program at an average college into a horrible branch of the Army and married a very pretty girl. The last two items averaged each other out, he reasoned. The boots, however, were still far too small.
"I think my boots make me look fat," Fats used to say.
"You are Fats," his friends used to joke. Fats never grew tired of this joke, until the third time he heard it. After that, he kicked people in the shins for the response. Almost anyone who knew Fats had been kicked in the shins for responding with "You are Fats."
After knowing Ox for about a year and never hearing him comment on the tiny boots, Fats asked if his boots made him look fat.
"Yep." Ox responded. Fats rared for a kick, but then realized that Ox might not have been joking.
"Wait... really?" a puzzled Fats asked.
"Well, yeah." Ox affirmed. "I mean, you have really, really tiny boots, but everything else about you is average. Proportionally, I'd say you're pretty fat compared to your boots."
Fats was puzzled. For his entire life, absolutely nothing stood out about him other than the size of his boots. He never wore shoes, because his foot size was actually very average. Fats had figured out how to wedge his feet into boots three or four sizes below what he should have been wearing. His tiny boots were his defining characteristic. Now, though, someone thought he looked fat. Should Fats start wearing average boots to match his average body and average life? Would he blend completely into obscurity if he lost the one thing that looked different about him? The one truly fat Lieutenant had just left the company, and Fats was worried that compared to the other skinny officers, he would now appear very fat.
"I mean, heck, compared to Juden, Token, myself, and CPT Hugnis," Ox went on, "you are kinda fat, Fats. The boots just emphasize it."
Dammit. Just what I needed, Fats thought. Now I'm finally different, but it's because I'm fat. My boots are the only average thing now.
"I'm not saying that your boots are average, though. They're still really tiny," Ox continued.
Great. I'm just a fat bodied, small booted....
"So I guess you're kinda just the fat bodied, small booted lieutenant around her, aren't you?"
Ok, this shit is getting annoying, Fats began to think.
"That's gotta be annoying, huh?" Ox asked.
Fats kicked Ox in the shins. It left a very small bruise.

CPT Hugnis

If a toy company decided to make actions figures based on the men of Ball Company, parents would trample each other on the day after Thanksgiving to buy the CPT Hugnis doll. A third generation graduate of West Point who was a new father of a likely fourth generation, CPT Hugnis was what everyone thinks of when they imagine the perfect US Army Captain. He stood 6'3", had a large jaw, a solid hairline, and a muscular build. He had earned his Ranger tab, his airborne wings, his air assault wings, his pathfinder badge, and some badges that the army invented just for Hugnis family members. These courses involved horribly painful and impossible feats of greatness that only a Hugnis could complete. When he walked into a room full of sheiks, there was no doubt who commanded the company. Though LT Ox was slightly taller and one or two other soldiers slightly bigger, all eyes immediately fixed on what one reported described as a "Tall, strong, rather Achilles looking individual." He was as American as American Football, and as patriotic as The Patriot. When CPT Hugnis spoke, Majors trembled in fear and higher level commanders sat in awe, occasionally whispering to each other "Totally taking credit for that idea."

LT Ox admired CPT Hugnis so much that he aspired to be absolutely nothing like him.

"There is no way I would ever want to be like that," Ox explained to LT Juden, who was also known as mini-Hugnis. "Why would I want to? I've never seen him sleep. I'm not even sure that he knows how. He's a machine, assembled in a factory designed by the ghosts of Patton, Richard the Lionheart, Julius Ceasar, Alexander, and Leonidas."

"You're giving him too much credit," LT Juden said while trying to fix his kit to look exactly like CPT Hugnis's gear. "Don't get me wrong, I try to mimic him in everything I do, but the guy has flaws."

"Oh, I'm sure he does," said LT Ox. "He's probably lousy at video games and can't carry a tune in a bucket."

"Yeah," agreed Juden who was measuring the size of his jaw in the mirror.

"The point I'm trying to make is that when people see you as G.I. Joe, they expect you to be the American Hero," Ox went on. "I'd rather be G.I. Fred, who's really not a bad guy, but you probably wouldn't go to him if you needed to take hill."

"Someday, Ox" Juden sighed, "you're going to realize that you have the potential to be a great officer, a leader of character, and an inspiration to all who see me..." Juden was drifting off and looking into the mirror.

"And someday, Schnozz" Ox replied, "You're going to realize that a big nose does not equal a strong jaw in the 'asthetic qualities of a leader' category."

Ox had to admit that even though Juden was a cocky bastard, he was the hardest working and most effective platoon leader in the company. In that way, he was very much like CPT Hugnis. In fact, this conversation occured just before Juden stepped off for his fifth patrol of the day, having gone without food for over 24 hours and relying solely on adrenaline and energy drinks to keep him going. When the time finally came for him to rest, Juden told Ox that he was so excited about getting to bed that he couldn't sleep. Ox probably would have laughed at the predicament were he not already sound asleep.

Next door, CPT Hugnis was expelling facial hair by flexing his jaw muscles. CPT Hugnis never had to shave.

The Combat Chaplain

Chaplain Rarely was a combat chaplain, which is not at all like those sissy garrison chaplains. He had deployed to combat a few times in the same job, and he was a guy the men could all relate to. This was not because he had an open ear to complaints. On the contrary, no one visited the chaplain with complaints, unless they were willing to spend two minutes listening to his gripes for every one minute of their own. He was not a particularly inspiring speaker, but only because his messages had the odd tendency to leave his flock slightly more depressed than they were before hearing them. If one was in a chipper mood, one usually left his sermons in a manner resembling one who had just gone to see a sarcastic standup comedian who dabbles too much in politics and religion.
No, men didn't relate to Chaplain Rarely because he was uplifting and spoke words of hope. They liked him because he made religion seem like something a normal person could do. He had no problems with smoking as long as the cigars were properly humidified and the smokers shared one with him. He loved beer, as long as it was German and someone else was buying. He wasn't the type of pastor who played the guitar for the children's lesson, but one would be hard pressed to beat him in a video game involving a guitar shaped controller. A modern-day Friar Tuck, which is what LT ox called him, Chaplain Rarely was an apathetically cynical German-American Lutheran. Very little could phase him, and even less could excite him. He referred to the increasingly popular contemporary protestant services as "happy clappy" and conducted them as infrequently as possible. It was difficult to attract people to liturgical worship, but that was never a great concern for Rarely.
"People will come if they want to come," he reasoned. Excusing his inability to get much attendance at his Bible studies and services, he said, "The Army has made it very clear to me that I'm not allowed to proselytize, which is somewhat like telling the Hebrews to make bricks without straw." Hence, he resorted to hanging up disturbing pictures in the chow tents as a means of recruitment. One such photo showed a puppy with a pistol to its head with a caption reading, "If you don't come to Bible study, I'll shoot this dog. His life is in your hands." Unfortunately, with the severe overpopulation of stray dogs in Abu Dahbu, two of the company commanders saw this as an opportunity to mitigate the rabid dog threat by ordering their soldiers not to attend any Bible studies for the remainder of the deployment.
"Oh well," the chaplain thought after another empty chapel Sunday. "I guess I'll just have to polish off all this communion wine."

Major Schmeis

Lt Ox, the Ball Company projects officer, approached the battalion executive officer concerning the development of nonlethal projects in his company’s area of operations.
“Major Schmeis? Sir, Captain Hansel stated that you wanted to speak with me.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, you’re working the nonlethal efforts for Ball company, right?” The Schmeis was, as always, wearing a perfectly starched and pressed uniform. Granted, that uniform was his PT uniform, but you never would have thought that he had ever done PT in it. It was spotless, and certainly had never been stained by any sweat. “So, you know that in Abu Dahbu, nonlethal is the main effort, right? Well, it’s the main effort everywhere, really. In fact, I don’t even concern myself with lethal aspects. Generally I leave my pistol and rifle behind when I go out on missions. It’s a secure environment now.”
“Didn’t we just lose a soldier last week, Sir?” Lt Ox looked puzzled.
“Well, yeah, we did, but that wasn’t on the FOB, and I’m pretty sure it was just celebratory fire. You’re missing the point, lieutenant. What I’m saying is that the area is secure, and we need to focus our efforts on non-lethal operations. Now, just to make sure you understand what those are, let’s hear what you think.” The major asked.
“Sir, for the past 9 months, I’ve been in charge of coordinating small business grants, canal clearings, medical exercises, and the building of a school. I would imagine it has something to do with using money as a weapon system, Sir.” Lt Ox replied.
“No, son, nonlethal operations don’t use weapons. I told you I leave mine behind when I go out. That’s why they call them Non-lethal. It means they are operations that aren’t lethal. Are you following? No weapons. Not even money.”
“Roger, sir, no money.”
“In fact, money wouldn’t be a very effective weapon system at all, would it? I mean, I’ve held bricks of cash before, and if you went around clubbing people with those, I can’t imagine the results would work out in your favor, now would they?”
LT Ox began, “Sir, that’s not exactly what I meant by using money as a weapon sy…”
“There’s that word 'weapon' again. I don’t care if you club them, throw it at them, launch it from a catapult, or whatever. It’s not on the army’s list of authorized munitions, and you aren’t going to use it as a weapon. That’s an order.” The Major seemed indignant, so LT Ox thought it best to just agree.
“Roger, Sir. No money. No weapons. No money as weapons. No launching money from catapults, sir,” LT Ox serious demeanor was maintained only by his puzzled understanding.
“You’re damn right, no money launched from catapults. I can’t believe you’d even suggest it.” The major fumed. “But then again, you a cherry LT, which means you probably haven’t figured out that artillery has been upgraded since the time of catapults. We use cannons now.”
Lt Ox, the artillery officer for Ball Company, began, “But we can’t launch money from cannons either, Sir, because that would be using money as a weap…”
“You’re damn right we can’t launch money from cannons! Can you imagine how much black powder that would take? I can! One metric assload, that’s how much! And we can’t order black powder in metric assloads, LT! Jesus Christ, cherry.”
“Roger, sir, I understand it only comes in standard shit-tons,” LT Ox replied.
“That’s right! And do you know how to convert standard shit-tons to metric assloads? I don’t, and I’ve been an infantry officer for 15 years! So no launching money from cannons!” The major seemed indignant, and had lost his train of thought. “Where was I?”
“No weapons, sir,” LT Ox was amused by the direction this conversation was taking, but thought it best to end it as quickly as possible before he was court marshaled.
“Right, no weapons! So, as I was saying, we need to begin assessments on all the infrastructure in our area. Now that’s gonna be a big task for you LT. I recommend breaking down one of your company’s platoons and making one “Infra” squad and one “Structure” squad.” The master plan was beginning to form.
“Um, sir, I don’t really, uh, command the company.” LT Ox said. “Captain Hugnis does. I’m pretty sure he won’t let me re-organize a platoon.”
“Well you have to convince him then, don’t you?” Major Schmeis responded. “You have to convince him that nonlethal is the main effort. He should know that, but he’s an infantry officer, so he probably won’t get it. He needs to understand that without an “Infra” squad and a “Structure” squad, there is no way we could possibly accurately assess all the infras and structures in Abu Dahbu. Are you following?”
“Absolutely, sir,” LT Ox was not following.
“So, once you break down the platoon, I need you to assess these projects. First, I want you to check out the hospital and see if they need any medical equipment or new buildings. Second, I want you to find some people to paint some friggin lines down all these roads. I never know if I’m in a passing zone or not because there are no lines in the road. Third, I want you to hire some people to paint all the security barriers in sector. Infantry blue, mostly, but you can also have them paint the Giblet crest in a few murals. Only do that if you feel a sense of pride or admiration for your first combat unit,” he continued, smiling.
LT Ox made a mental note to ensure no Giblets were painted on any of the approximately 3.6 million security barriers in Abu Dahbu, and if he saw one, to paint over it immediately.
“I would also like you to take over the market project. I think we need to buy air conditioners for the entire marketplace. It’s hot as balls out there when I’m trying to buy my groceries, and I’m sick of it. I nearly stained my PTs the other day.”
“Well, sir, it is an outdoor market in the Middle East in August… wait, sir, did you say you were buying groceries outside the FOB in PTs?” LT Ox wondered how many things were wrong with his last sentence.
“Well, no, I didn’t, but the supply truck came by and I wanted to make sure I got some honey buns before that jackass Major Schmeik took them all. The point is, I nearly got sweat on my PTs, so that damn market better get air conditioners and I mean fast!” The executive officer went on to list a long slew of projects involving improvements to all the areas that he had visited, thought he might visit, or had heard about in the nightly meetings, including those from areas that were not in Abu Dahbu. The cumulative price to conduct these projects was somewhere in the neighborhood of an 22.2 billion American dollars, or 367 bazillion Iraqi Dinars. LT Ox thought it might be beneficial to bring this fact up.
“Sir, I was wondering what funding source you would like me to use in order to pay for all these projects,” he asked.
“The funding sources have all been cut off,” he quickly replied. “I told you, no money as a weapons system. You really need to take notes, LT.”
“Roger, sir, that’s why I was asking. If we have no way of paying these people, then I guess I’m not sure why we are starting these projects.” Lieutenant Ox was attempting to use reason, but Major Schmeis had long since built up an immunity to that nonsense.
“Because nonlethal is the main effort, LT. We do nonlethal, or people die. Is that what you want, LT? For people to die? People are dying every day, LT, and if we don’t do nonlethal, people are going to continue to die. You do love America, don’t you?” He asked.
“I do love America, sir.” LT Ox loved America so much that he volunteered to leave it for 15 months at a time to not do projects in Abu Dahbu. It was about a good a place as any to not do projects, when one thought about it. Why, just now, some of his friends were not doing projects in Afghanistan, others were not doing them in the Philippines, and he was sure that even now, there was some super-secret special forces in Iran or Pakistan right now, not doing projects in some small village, attempting to win the hearts and minds.
“That’s what I thought. So you are going to start by assessing all the infras and structures to see how we can kick these projects into high gear.”
“But, sir, we have no money...” LT Ox was very confused at this point.
“Of course we don’t have money, LT. I realize you’re a cherry, but come on, this isn’t that difficult. Nonlethal, in a nutshell, means assessments and projects. We assess, we do projects. You can’t do the project until you have done the assessment. So we need to do the assessments.”
“Roger, sir, but we are assessing projects we can’t do…”
“No, idiot. You can’t assess a project that hasn’t been done! How are we suppose to do an assessment on a project when there is nothing to assess? You have to do the project first, then do the assessment.”
“But sir, didn’t you just say…”
“Listen, LT. I realize we can’t afford projects. But we have to either assess, or do the actual project. We don’t have money for the projects, and we don’t need money to assess. So we are going to assess. We’ll do every damn assessment that we can in this area, and when we’re done with that, we’ll assess our assessments. Then we’ll assess each other’s assessments, and we’ll submit an assessment of these assessments to the brigade commander, and he’ll say, ‘Damn, the Giblets are doing some fine nonlethal down in Abu Dahbu. Let’s give that Major Schmeis a medal.’ And when that day comes, LT Ox, you’ll know why we did these assessments.”

A note on my inspiration

I was an Arabic major for two years before I realized that I didn't speak Arabic. When this realization struck me, I decided that if I were to graduate from my rockbound highland home, I would need to change to a major that was taught in a language I already speak. I decided on English, or more specifically, Arts, Philosophy, and Literature. While it may not be immediately evident how an Arts, Philosophy, and Literature major is more specific than an English major, I can assure the readers of this blog that I will never tell you. Furthermore, if you read this for any other reason than 1) You are my family, 2) you are a friend, or 3) you are stalking me, please understand that very little of my writing will make any sense.
If I gained anything from my time as an APL major, it was a refinement of my skill in procrastination and an ability to write B or A- work about books I'd never read. One of the reason I chose APL over History was because I thought that the books I would read for an APL major were more likely to have better Spark/Cliff notes than the history texts. This was probably very true, though by relying heavily on those notes, I missed the best part about my literature focus. Occasionally, the books our professors assigned were very funny, or very moving, or moving in the direction of very funny. Upon graduation, I decided to keep and begin reading some of the books that I was supposed to have read in my classes, and so far (yes, this is an ongoing experience, interrupted frequently by mind-numbing exercises like video games, which are designed to strip the brain of anything not necessary to perform basic life functions and move thumbs) I am pleased with my professors' choices. My favorite book thus far is Joseph Heller's Catch-22. Having attended a military academy and witnessed my own portion of war, I find the tragically comedic situations in which Heller's characters find themselves so like my experiences that I must label Catch-22 the most authentic war story ever written.
Of course, I haven't read every war story ever written, but who has? Not you, so my opinion is just as good as yours.
If you haven't read Heller's masterpiece, please do so rather than reading my blog. It is a far better work. If you have a pulse, you will likely laugh out loud (not LOL. I hate LOL. I hate ROTFL. I hate LMAO. I also hate clowns) whilst reading it (I do like whilst. And bugger. And bullocks. And parenthesis). Reading Catch-22 will not only help you understand my attempted style, it will also... I don't know what it will do, but it's friggin' hilarious, and you should read it. Good Omens is another stellar read, and seeing as I have read that book twice since I last read Catch-22 you'll likely find bits of that book influencing my writing as well.
Furthermore, a note for my family. Portions of my writing will contain foul language. I would love to edit it out, but if I attempt to describe the verbal exchanges of men in an infantry battalion with "Well, foo foo on you, poopy-head," I'm afraid that any attempt at authenticity will be lost. I'm so sorry. Please understand that every time I write a naughty word, I am actually thinking a much kinder word in my head. Like puppies. Or bunny rabbits. Or pumpkin pie. Or poopy diaper.