Task Force Smith; Snippet 7
As he poured steaming hot coffee into his canteen cup, he looked around the inside of the TOC, trying to see who else had arrived for the daily meeting with the colonel. This was the best opportunity during the day to meet with his fellow company commanders, some of whom he considered friends, and shoot the bull.
The inside of the tent was starting to get warm. Steve had ditched his cold weather garments, nicknamed “snivel gear” about fifteen minutes prior, and it felt like he was going to be uncomfortably hot within the hour. He wasn’t enamored with the local climate, it was akin to some of the less hospitable deserts back on Earth-- the temperature extremes within a single day on Diess were brutal. Steve imaged that the TOC monkeys were going to be rolling up the sides of the tent pretty shortly. If not, they would be stewing in their own juices. And Lord knows, those guys smelled bad enough already.
Steve walked over to the refreshment table to get himself something to put in his coffee. Somehow, the TOC always had goodies like doughnuts, or cakes, to go along with their coffee. Steve always wondered how it was that the staff geeks could get doughnuts, yet there were none to be had for the guys in his company. He made a mental note to bust HHC commander’s balls over that one. Sitting next to a recently emptied box of doughnuts were packets of cocoa powder mix. He opened one up and stirred it into his coffee with an ink pen. It made for a decent field expedient mocha. He took a sip, and felt contented for just one short moment. The cocoa covered the badly overcooked coffee taste.
He took a look around at the battalion’s maps and overlays, hung up by the radios. The intelligence NCO was at a field table, penciling in some graphics. In the back of the fire supporter’s M577 the fire support officer, Captain Frandsen, was playing cards with the S-2, Captain Gaston. Next to the maps were the tracking charts listing the battalion’s maintenance status, its current personnel status, logistical stats, and an 8x10 digital photo of the Charlie Company Commander, Captain Assgaard. On the bottom of the photo was scrawled “The Ass-Master.” Next to that were hung several other pieces of sophomoric humor, that were infinitely funnier at two o’clock in the morning when everyone in the TOC was suffering from sleep deprivation, and certifiably slap-happy.
As he took another sip of his noxious brew, Steve checked the dry-erase board that was prominently displayed with the title “Word of the Day” written on top. One of many inside-jokes among the staff was the “Word of the Day.” The battalion XO, who had an IQ like a phone number, would think of a vocabulary word to teach the officers and men who frequented the TOC. It was the running joke that everyone in the infantry was a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal, with a strong back and a weak mind. This point was almost always reiterated by other members of the battalion task force, such as the engineers, air defenders, tankers, and artillery folks—all of whom were convinced beyond a doubt of their intellectual superiority among their less refined brothers in arms. The battalion XO, who was not only the smartest guy in the task force, was also an entertaining fellow with a rapier wit. In order to dispel the myth that infantrymen were incapable of learning, and that they were not completely devoid of any sort of redeeming academic qualities, he started posting the “Word of the Day.” The “Word” was almost always some fancy-shmansy fifty-cent word, with a couple dozen syllables. The word on the board was “BUCOLIC,” and it was the same word that had been up since yesterday. Steve was mildly disappointed; it was one of the few things he looked forward to when he came to the TOC each day.
“This shit sucks.”
Steve looked over to see Captain Jake “The Snake” Rodriguez standing next to him. Jake was the Bravo Company Commander and he was one of the few people that Steve considered a “friend.” Jake was a bit short, very stocky, and always, always, had a big fat dip in his mouth. He had the gait of a weightlifter, and physical strength to match. His dry humor and his direct approach made him a great leader of men, and those in his command regarded him highly. He was also one of the crudest individuals that Steve had ever met.
“What shit sucks?” Steve asked.
“This fucking coffee man, have you tasted this crap?”
Steve smirked a little. “Yeah dude, I had to cut it with a little cocoa just to make it drinkable.”
“Cocoa? You drinking that mocha shit again?”
“Of course, you got a problem with that?”
Jake had two paper cups, one in each hand. One held some very awful coffee, and the other was his “spit cup” half full of putrid tobacco juice. Jake chose that moment to spit some more brown saliva into his rapidly filling cup. “Real men drink their coffee black. That mocha shit is for limp-wristed, poetry reciting, clove cigarette smoking faggots that hang out in tea houses.”
Steve took another sip from his cup. “You make it sound like such a bad thing. Sometimes you have to get in touch with your feminine side.”
Jake set his coffee cup down on nearby field table, scratched his butt and farted. “I get in touch with my feminine side every chance I get. Usually it’s in private with a naughty magazine and a tub of petroleum jelly. I like to touch myself a lot.”
Steve almost choked on his field expedient mocha. “Dude, you’re a funny bitch!”
“I try.”
It was at that moment that the “Currahee” company commander approached the two of them. “Good morning fellas.” He was way too chipper.
Steve didn’t answer, he hated Captain Marcel’s guts, and he didn’t hide it very well. Jake however, hid the contempt for his “peer” very well, and reciprocated the greeting. “What’s up Matthew?”
“Just getting ready for Colonel Smith’s meeting. I really enjoy coming to briefings here, the command and staff in my battalion is so boring. They don’t have any sense of humor, you guys are totally different.”
Captain Marcel commanded Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 506th Infantry (Air Assault). His battalion was also in the same brigade as the Manchus, and for the time being his company had been cross-attached to 1-9 Infantry. That meant that the battalions had swapped a company; 1-9 Manchu gave up a company of mechanized infantry to 1st of the 506th, and in return they received a company of air assault infantry from the Currahees. This was quite a normal procedure in the mechanized infantry and armor communities, but not nearly as common in the light infantry world.
Jake spit in his cup again. “Yeah, us Manchus are a bunch of funny little bitches.”