Now I felt worse for even entertaining the notion of standing up this brother. I rushed toward him and filled his 13% of contact with the outside world with my ugly mug. “Who loves ya, Chainsaw!” I announced, winning a tilt-headed grin and extended brotherly hand. He started to snap his folded cane together. “I gotcha, Chain,” I assured him as I led us both to a booth where we sat and caught up for about an hour.
We went outside later on the veranda for a change of scenery and some air. I mostly listened to what he had to say. I had never yet heard the story of his action in Afghanistan, but this would not be the forum to bring it up.
At a point, he wanted to introduce me to Peanut, and his wife Nancy, who I had heard of many times over the years from Chain, who always referred to her as ‘Hot Pants Nanc.’ I address her on social media as ‘HPN.’ Nuff said.
We wandered the halls just a bit, Chainsaw seeming just the slightest bit uncertain where he was at. We doubled back here and there. I was fine. Chain could take all the time he needed; I would have patience. Then we heard a muffled behind-a-door female voice: “Hooo-hooo!!”
“That’s probably her. That’s the Peanut; she’s a hooah…” Colin said, then he stopped dead in his tracks, realizing how that had just sounded. Most of us get it, but… so a ‘hooer’ is a fabricated word for someone who might exclaim “Hooo!!” often. Pronounced with the slant of the Bostonian argot, it comes out like “hooah” which is typically the way those east coast Micks pronounce the word ‘whore.’ Just watch a few episodes of the Sopranos, why don’t ya; it will come to you.
“Oh… no I didn’t… no I did NOT say that!” Chain lamented and we both reverted to a spastic thunderous laugh. “Come on Chain, Let’s go meet the hooah.” And we did. The next day, I came back and had lunch with Chainsaw, and brought my two youngest kids to meet Uncle Chainsaw. That was the last time I saw him.
The Ambush
This was a classic baited ambush.
The Abraham Lincolns had a routine mission in an area they’d been working. I got caught up in the mix with them when I asked to tag along with my routine mission. While conducting said routine operations, we were ambushed…by the bitches with the G-3s.
It was, in fact, the first time we used air support inside Pakistan, had an AV-8 Harrier dropped one 500 pounder—fact check that bee-atches! Remembering this was 2002; I was already long gone on MedEvac when that ordnance was dropped.
I am in no way hacking on anyone present that day…well, maybe myself for getting hit.
The Abraham Lincolns were very professional, and I did enjoy the short time with them.
But I ran my ship my way! Anyone who was under my charge wore their full armor on missions, or they could sunbathe in a guard tower; I cared not.
Wearing armor was not for uniformity, not because I was told to, but because it increases one’s odds of survival in a gunfight—PERIOD! I’ve seen it work, and I’ve said “too bad” when I saw a wounded brother who didn’t have his shit on. Some people say I’m lucky… still waiting on some others.
I’m alive today because I had my helmet where it belonged: on my head.
The helmet was breached by a 7.62 X 51mm NATO round, or a .308 caliber, for my civilian gun peeps, at a range of 80-100 meters away. I could have made that shot myself, hopping up and down with my G-3 like that guy was. What a loser he was. The helmet is guaranteed to stop a NATO 9 x 19mm Parabellum dead in its tracks, an event I witnessed for myself in a laboratory setting.
Being med-evacuated is about a pain in the ass! Everybody wants to cut your clothes off or stick you.
Medics; “1sg, we need to check for other wounds.”
Me; “Got it, but there ain’t any, I’m telling you.”
“But 1sg, we HAVE to check.”
“OK,OK…” I relent.
“We’re gonna cut off your uniform”
“The hell you are! If you do, you’ll need a medic more than me. Put your frickin’ scissors away and help me, or get the hell out of the way…and who’s got a dip?!?”
I’ll never forget that the IV bag was ice cold, and the fluid hurt more than the bullet wound. Blah, blah, blah, I take a Black Hawk ride to higher up on the medical food chain.
All the while saying the F word over and over.
I arrive where I had left just days earlier, and where my boss/friend was located. There was an ambulance waiting on me. With a medic on each arm, we walk right past the ambulance, with me bitching up a storm about not wanting to be sent home. After all I really thought it was just a nick, and that I’d be OK in a day or so. Kinda like, “EVERYONE; get off my nutts!”
I get pushed even higher up the intensive care echelons…head injury looking pretty STAT. OK, whatever… I ain’t going home; I have a job to do. A few days rest. I accept that.
Funny thing…a nurse, kinda mean, call sign ‘Nurse Ratchet’ meaner than a humiliated hornet, had my head in her lap until properly released.
MRI Doc: “1Sg, Shut up! You have a hole in your skull about the size of a G-Shock watch—YOU ARE GOING HOME; game over!” My G-Shock watch took on a whole new meaning to me.
The first thing to mind: how am I gonna explain this one to Nanc (Chainsaw’s wife)?
I want a hook flash now! (a phone line to the states). What do I get instead? Some moron who couldn’t have screwed things up any better, unless he did it on purpose.
That’s right, one ‘Captain Dipsh*t’ aka casualty assistance dude.
“I need a good contact number, 1Sg.”
“I want a hook flash!”
“Number, 1Sg!”
“Hook flash, Captain!”
“Number!”
“Hook flash!”
“Look 1Sg, this is my job!”
“Fine! F you!” I relented, and he proceeded to do exactly what I predicted…fornicate everything up. Now, I’m calling my teen daughter on her cell phone. If I could find him to this day, I’d bitch slap him.
And so it went
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