The Goose Bump Betrayal

 

It was one of my first inspections as a sergeant in the Marine Corps.  I had checked my troops and was confident they were ready to make me proud as their section chief.  Our battalion commanding officer was due any minute and my battery CO called us to attention.  He moved down the ranks doing a pre-inspection.

I stood locked at attention as the captain moved down our ranks from man to man.

Suddenly, I heard one of the men calling sharply, “Sergeant Matthews!”

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My eyes snapped to one of my troops who was weaving like a willow tree in a strong wind.  I knew what that meant.  He had locked his knees and was passing out.

Our battery First Sergeant shouted, “Get him!”

I was already moving.  In less than a second I was standing in front of the wobbly private.  Stooping, I pulled his wrist and ducked under it, pulling his body forward.  Because of his locked knees, he fell over my shoulder like a cut tree and I stood to carry him to a safe spot where I could put him down in a sitting position.

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After I made sure my troopie was OK I returned to my place in the ranks and stood at attention.

It wasn’t long before the colonel arrived and the inspection started.  I stood ramrod straight as he stepped in front of me.  His eyes moved up and down, then narrowed as he growled, “Your brass looks like s—t, Sergeant”

I had just gotten my first “gig” as a sergeant.

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Some people call it a hit or something else but, at that time, Marines in my unit called anything less than a perfect inspection a gig.

When I carried the young Marine out of the ranks, we had somehow smudged my freshly polished brass belt buckle.  In the Marines, if it can be shined, it MUST be shined.

Luckily my first sergeant came through for me and the gig was dropped, but there was another time, another gig, that was not dropped, and I didn’t feel like it was fair at all.

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It was cold, frigid really.  It was way too cold for an inspection, even in our winter service uniform but, hey, we were Marines.  We were tough.

We stood at ease.  Several of the troops complained about the cold and some were shivering visibly.  In my mind I agreed with them but there was nothing I could do about it so I kept quiet.  My job was to get results, not to whine and complain.

At the order, “A-tten-tion!” we snapped to, or at least tried to.  We had stood at ease for so long that, even with the relative freedom of that position, muscles had tightened in the bitter cold.

Despite the discomfort, when the battalion CO stepped in front of me, I was confident.  I had prepared meticulously.  The brass shone brightly.  The creases were sharp.  I was ready.

The CO frowned, “That mustache is un-sat, Marine.”

I knew what that meant.  In the Marine Corps, regulations allowed Marines to have a mustache, but no individual hair in that mustache could be longer than 1/2 inch long.  Longer was unsatisfactory.

We stood at ease as our battery Executive Officer spoke to the battery before dismissing us.  He specifically mentioned some of the gigs.  “Those who were gigged for mustaches will shave them off, TO-DAY.”

I looked around at a couple of the other Marines who had mustaches.  I have to admit, it was almost comical.  On each young face, the mustaches, short though they were, stood absolutely straight out, making them appear longer than they actually were.

We had been betrayed by goose bumps.

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Another gig came the day we had a low-level inspection in preparation for a bigger inspection.  Our platoon CO would be around to our rooms where we had most of our gear laid out on our bunks and our uniforms cleaned, pressed, and hanging in our lockers.

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My readers know I am proud of my service, and that I’m especially proud of the Marine Corps.  I unabashedly believe it is the best branch of the best military force in the world.  But that doesn’t mean I think everything about the Marine Corps makes total sense.

The Marines take inspections to the extreme.  As I said before, if it can be polished, the Marines want it polished.  This led some Marines to polish the non-shine finish on their M-16 magazines to at least a semi-shine.  All we really had to do was take them apart and clean the tiniest speck of dirt out with Q-tips, but some of us took it that extra step.  It looked good during an inspection.  Not so much during combat.

That had been one topic of conversation the night before when some of my friends and I were talking.  One friend, a staff sergeant who was our acting battery Gunnery Sergeant, had grabbed a girlie magazine off one Marine’s secretary and said, “This is the only kind of magazine I want to inspect.”

Yeah.

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The next morning was the day of the inspection.  After morning formation we were told to go to our rooms and await inspection.  As I walked toward mine, our acting battery Gunny told me that he would be inspecting the NCOs (non-commissioned officers) and the CO would be inspecting the lower ranking troops.

Seeing a chance to mess with my friend, I returned to my room and borrowed some of my friend’s girlie magazines. They were in a small format so I could easily fold them to fit into my M-16 magazine pouches.  I hid the ammo magazines that would normally go there.  I figured my friend would get a good laugh out of the kind of magazines in my pouches…the kind he had said he wanted to inspect.

My roomies and I waited for the staff sergeant’s arrival and anticipated the ensuing laughter.

Except…

The CO had changed his mind about who would inspect whom.

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The door to our room opened and my eyes widened as the battery First Sergeant stepped in.  Before I could move, he ordered, “A-tten-tion!”

I snapped to attention as the battery CO walked in and moved to my bunk to start his inspection.  The first thing he reached for was the magazine pouches.  He flipped one of the pouches open and pulled one of the girlie magazines out.  The captain hesitated and looked at the magazine, then at me.

He looked at the first sergeant, who was keeping notes on the inspection.  The CO said, “Dirty magazines.”

Yeah, I guess that’s one gig I deserved.

 

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