Not impressed with the Colonel's phallus

In the fall of 1998, I was given 17 minutes of warning before the plane left. I was going to be sent to Mississippi to be a real-world medic for a 4 day exercise. The “battle” was going to be taking place right in the middle of “Tropical Storm Francis”, so for 4 days, troops would be contested against each other in the muggy, muddy backwaters of Mississippi in order that the commander’s could prove to each other how good they were at commanding troops, and hopefully get a promotion out of it. We went from the brown grasslands of Colorado to the verdant deciduous plants of the south. But I remember that entire trip in grayscale. The constant rain blurred the black plant life into the surrounding grey concrete slabs housing white eyed humans in soaking wet uniforms. Uniforms that blended like a chameleon into their surroundings.

Exercises are more than just learning opportunities. They are a medium though which individual soldiers can prove their worth and ability on the battlefield while still being relatively safe. The military is a mindless train, going down a track made of money towards a vaguely defined destination, fueled not by rational intelligent reasoning, but by the testosterone of men with large guns. Exercises are not just for training, they’re also the ultimate in “bigger dick” contests. This goes for both grunts in the trenches, and the commanders in the rear. And while situations can become serious for individual soldiers, safety measures are put in place to ensure that the play of the exercise doesn’t become dangerous for those involved.

One such safety measure is the real-world medics (“Real-world” is a title, as opposed to the exercise medics playing in the game with all the other soldiers). Should a soldier get hurt by somebody else showing them the size of their penis, the real world medics who are not actually playing in the exercise will arrive and give medical care to those who require it.

Upon our arrival, we were told the scenario was a flightline designed for transport planes was placed in the middle of enemy territory, and the Commander, a 6 foot tall linebacker who liked to stand with his arms folded across his chest named Colonel Miller, was going to be responsible for defending the flightline for 4 days. Naturally, the first thing the Col. Miller did was to set up a high security perimeter around the flightline. While this was important for security reasons, it certainly was a pain in the ass for the medics. Such a perimeter involved several fences surrounding the area that we were constantly driving our ambulance in and out of. Every 50 yards, for 300 yards, we would be stopped at yet another gate:

“Where are you going?”

“Through the gate, we are the real-world medics, we’re not playing in the exercise.”

“What is your business here?”

“To treat injuries should they occur.”

“Is someone hurt?”

“Not that we know of, but we are patrolling to check on everyone, and make sure that they are all right.”

“So nobody gave you permission to come over here?”

“No, we’re not in the game, we don’t need permission.”

“Nobody told me that any medics could come through the gate.”

“That’s because we’re not in the exercise, if we were exercise medics, we wouldn’t be allowed through the gate.”

“So you’re not really allowed through the gate then.”

“Yes, we are, because we’re not in the exercise.”

“Well, I’m going to have to search the vehicle before I let you through.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Enemy troops or supplies.”

“The enemy can’t use our vehicle for that, we’re not in the game.”

“My orders are to search every vehicle coming through this gate.”

Sigh… “Go ahead then, search the vehicle.”

Then we drive 50 yards:

“Where are you going?”

…sigh.

All exercises are controlled by one office: the Mission Control Center (MCC). In the MCC, the commander’s sit around and discuss what obstacles and scenarios are going to be thrown at each other next: be it a bio-chemical attack so that they all have to don their protective suits as quickly as possible, or perhaps one of their aircraft has been sabotaged, so they have to fix it without any injuries. This is the place where the biggest dicks throw their attitude around and try to take control of everyone else around them. The MCC is best avoided because all the Colonels who are losing the contest tend to throw their weight around on any enlisted members that happen nearby.

Traditionally, most injuries sustained in exercises are minor. A few scrapes and bruises, a number of twisted ankles, and perhaps the occasional broken limb. As a rule, the soldiers are usually safe, so it’s rare that any such injuries are serious. But on the 3rd day of this exercise, we got a call that a man had collapsed near the MCC. We rushed in the ambulance towards the patient, and were stopped 6 times, and questioned about our business being there. While this was an annoyance before, now it was a hindrance. We quickly explained to all the guards that we had a patient who had collapsed up ahead and we had to reach him without being interrogated and questioned any further.

When we arrived on-scene, I took stock of the situation. A rotund man in an overly constrictive camouflage uniform was lying on his back, holding his left arm like a kid who has just fallen off a bike. His legs were splayed out below him and he was squinting his eyes in the rain. His breathing sounded like someone had parked a Chevy on his sternum.

“What happened?”

“My…arm…hurts.”

“I’m sorry sir, I can’t hear you through the rain, you’ll have to speak up.”

“My arm.”

While my partner got the gurney, I took a set of vital signs. Pulse: 110. Blood Pressure: 100/68. Respiration: 24.

His pulse was high, and his blood pressure was low. He was clutching his left arm with his right hand. All the classic signs of a heart attack.

During a heart attack, the muscle wall has a section in it that has just died, and that area of dead tissue spreads like a bloodstain. Time is muscle, and it was going to take us 6 minutes to rush this man to a hospital, but it would take about 25 minutes if we had to be stopped every 50 meters by another gate guard who had orders to question the size of every single phallus going in and out of the gate, including inspecting every vehicle for suspected enemy soldiers. 25 minutes is a fatally long time when your cardiac output has stopped.

Seeing that we were right next to the MCC, I figured I’d just take 45 seconds to go inside and solve the problem.

As I rushed through the doors, I came into a room strewn with computer desks. There was about a dozen officers standing in 3 different huddles around a computer, discussing plans and scenarios. I recognized many commanders, including my own, Colonel Kimball, sitting in chair, watching the events and outcomes of the exercise planners. And there off to my left was a large man with eagles on his shoulders standing with his arms folded across his chest: Colonel Miller. Great! Just the man I was looking for. The commander of the exercise had the highest authority there, and as such, was able to shut down the exercise for emergency reasons if need be.

“Col. Miller, I’m SSgt Maiers with the real-world medics. We have a patient just outside this door who is having a heart attack. I’m going to bring him to the hospital, but I can’t get there in time if we have to stop at every gate and be questioned by the guards. This is a very serious situation, and I need you to order all the gates opened immediately.”

“Are you sure he’s having a heart attack?”

“All the signs I’ve been able to gather point towards a heart attack. I need the gates open now.”

“How do you know he’s having a heart attack?”

“Because his left arm hurts, his pulse is high, and his blood pressure is low. These are all signs of an acute myocardial infarction.”

“It sounds like his arm hurts, not his chest. I’m not going to call off this exercise because somebody hurt their shoulder.”

“Respectfully sir, the way the nervous system is set up, pain from a heart attack is often radiated up the left side of the chest, and down the left arm, or sometimes even up to the left side of the jaw. It’s possible that he just hurt his arm yes, but I’m not willing to risk his life on that when it’s just as possible he is having a heart attack.”

“My flightline is surrounded by the enemy right now, I’m not going to call off an exercise with 800 people participating in it, and open up all the gates, so that I can lose the flightline and fail the mission just because somebody hurt their arm.”

“The exercise is just a game sir! This man’s life is in danger!”

“Then I suggest you get on your way and hurry to the hospital…Sergeant.” And with that he stepped up closer to me and looked me square in the eye, trying to intimidate me into doing what he said.

As a soldier, I took an oath to follow the orders of the officers appointed over me. I was obligated to do what this man said, even though it would risk the life of my patient. Knowing that I was going to get into some serious trouble, I did the only thing I could think of:

I stood up straighter, put my face a few centimeters from his nose and said, “Get the FUCK out of my way!” I walked around him and directly over the PA system. I picked up the microphone and hit the “On” button. “This is the MCC with a real world message. The exercise is on hold until further notice. Open all barriers immediately.”

Col Miller turned red, and began stalking towards me. Furious that I was not impressed with the enormity of his penis. “I want you out of my MCC Sergeant! I’ll have your ass in a courts marshall!” He was screaming at me, but I was already out the door and in the ambulance by the time Col. Kimball started trying to calm down Col. Miller.

My partner and I rushed to the hospital through all the recently opened gates, and got there in 8 minutes. We delivered the patient and gave a report of his condition to the attending physician. After several EKG and blood tests, the doctor found that Col Miller was indeed right. The man had slipped in the rain and fallen on his left shoulder. While this was good news, as we were no longer in fear for this man’s life, it did potentially mean some trouble for me. I had deliberately disobeyed a direct order from a Colonel, and was rather disrespectful as well. Then I went around him to get what I felt needed done, when in the end my patient just had a bruised arm.

I went back to the flightline, expecting to be harangued by officers. But when I arrived, I was approached by my commander from Colorado, Col Kimball. He was a pediatrician, and had seen the entire scene with Col Miller.

“Sgt Maiers. I saw what happened and I talked to Col Miller about it. I want you to know that yes, he’s rather upset with you and does actually want you kicked out of the Air Force. But he’s not a doctor and doesn’t know anything about how serious the symptoms were that you saw. I covered you. I told him that I would see to it that you were punished. So what I suggest is that you go to your room, and not come out until we are about to get on the plane home. I don’t want you seen by Col Miller. You are not going to be in any trouble for this, but in the future, I expect you to use more tact. You will never pull anything like that again, nor will you be invited to play in next year’s exercise.”

Col Kimball had covered me, but he was right. I marched directly to my room and hid until the plane left the next day. So in the end, not only did I get the job done, I was punished with a day off.