The Pink Pancakes
Printed From: The BaitShop
Category: The CoffeeCorner
Forum Name: Military, Veterans, LEO, Fire and Rescue
Forum Description: These men and women put their lives on the line every day for us and we say THANKS! Forum dedicated to Lance Corporal Jeremy Scott Sandvick Monroe, USMC - KIA Iraq 8 OCT 2006
URL: http://www.baitshopboyz.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=18080
Printed Date: 26 March 2026 at 22:21
Software Version: Web Wiz Forums 11.10 - http://www.webwizforums.com
Topic: The Pink Pancakes
Posted By: rivet
Subject: The Pink Pancakes
Date Posted: 25 September 2009 at 11:02
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Okay folks, Montana Madness's post about Digger and Boo coming back
from The Desert brought back many memories and made me dig out my
journal from my time back during the first Gulf War. It's been a weird
kind of fun recalling my time there so many years later....and I'd like
to share another snapshot of my experience from the Desert Storm....if
you all are willing readers. It's all true and all from my sand-encrusted journal. Each of the essays I've posted following my Desert Diary entries was written within days of the scribbled words that precede them...every word put down by a twentysomething paratrooper who was there. If you have read this far, hang on 'cause here we go! "So here I sit in the empty mess-tent writing home, feeling like warmed-over crap because of the drugs I'm on. Let me qualify that. We ALL feel like warmed-over crap; we're suffering from the minor effects of nerve-agent poisoning. Fortunately it's self-induced. Small white pills taken three times daily. Kick in your anti-bodies the Army says, build up your immunity to nerve gas- a booster shot of sorts. 'Fortunately' because if this was the real thing- via airmail SCUD missile (Federal Express be damned) it's be a whole lot worse. We're coping with manageable levels of poor bladder control, nausea, headaches, drooling and constant thirst as just another burden in this war. Or 'combat' as it's now called since the dawning of the All-Volunteer Army and podunk battles since Grenada. Of course people die just as painfully and messily now as they used to during 'war' , but not on such a large scale. Yet. Since early this morning, just passed midnight, streams of C-130 Hercules' landed at the nearby airfield, ready to whisk us off to wherever our staging area might be. With these aircraft, obviously, have come the flightline personnel, aircrews and ground support teams necessary to keep that green sheet-metal flying, adding to the hustle and bustle of outload preparations and straining the allready overtaxed camp facilities. Combat laden HUMVEES, packing anything we might possibly need to push the Iraqi scum to capitulation- strapped on, tied on, boxed-in items wherever they might fit on the hood, roof, sides- crawl about the camp with the steady knock-rumble of their V-8 Diesels. Muddied up to cover their green paint, they've taken on the sandy color of the desert, the slime of wet desert dust joyously plastered on in our military version of mudpie free-for-all. Everything is tactically covered, clothed or muddied. Our commander's directive toward the total combat concept. Camoflauge, the tactical mindset ingrained from day-one in the Army. Everything must adhere to this sanctity; we must appease the War God down to the the desert brown plastic cutlery we use..... -Desert Journal Entry, 1991 Four-thirty in the morning, cool and black, and I made my way back from the shower point. Not that there were any showers available, water resupply from the cisterns had ceased with the notice of forward deployment and the beginning of the air campaign, what you got was enough to fill a stainless steel bowl from which to shave and brush your teeth in. Full circle from six months ago when we got here. Today the forward elements of my battalion would fly out to wherever they were to stage from, setting up the area for the rest of the unit to move into. Rumor control said it was Rhafa, another noplace in the midle of nowhere, about a two hour flight from the camp, due northwest towards the Iraqi border. I'd moved to camp Falcon-6 where I was to consolidate the brigade's rear and along with a couple squads, outload the battalions as they rotated through , at the tune of one every other day. This morning I knew it would be a long day; just as the other's had been when we'd outloaded 1st battalion. Hopefully I wouldn't have to deal with any other Lieutenants other than Beckett, he was the only one who was mature enough to not get bent out of shape over every minor problem and it was no wonder; he had been a Sergeant once, before OCS. Already I could see the bustling mess trailer at the far end of the camp, under the eerie light of the overhead lamps down by he second warehouse, with its unmistakeable smell. I walked towards it, searching my cargo pockets for the meal authorization for the 15 advance personnel. It was my task to ensure they would have the MRE's, ammo, radios, batteries and all other supplies they needed to take with them. The meals were drawn from brigade stores, so I did not look forward to the challenge, the tug-of-war, the arguing from the brigade mess Sergeant and the difficulty in getting them released. I could get grenades easier than chow from Brigade at this point in time. As I walked up to the mess area I couldn't believe what I saw: Girls. Real American females. Whereas the mess crew were three surly Privates and a Master Sergeant, today there were four girls too. "Hi" one of them said to me, looking up from what she was doing. "Uh...morning. I mean...good morning." She was slitting off the tops of the half pint milk packages, cases of them stacked by her side. 'Nuclear Milk' we called the Ultra-High-Temperature pasteurized milk the Saudi's supplied. Even sitting in the Arabian sun, it would not spoil in the package and had a shelf life of about three years. I watched her for a moment and then asked if she could use some help. She could, and we emptied all the cases of the milk containers into a huge pot, talking easily, glad to find a friendly face amongst all the loneliness. Airman Davis told me that in order to help support all the additional troops from Falcon Field- what our airfield was being called- and the rotation of flight crews using it as a rest-over, the mess Sergeant had gotten volunteers from the off-duty personnel. With this four girl boost, she said he would have no problems. I explained my meal request to her and in no time was collecting the cases of MRE's I needed. She even helped me carry them. "Thank's for your help...." I said to her, and in her cookie cutter image, that generic set of simple features representative of any one of thousands of white females that gravitate into military service, I saw real joy. That was suddenly strange to me. I had almost forgotten what real joy was. It struck me that she was having a good time working in that mobile kitchen, glad for the change of pace and sunday-morning smells so different from the insane noise and oily waves of jet fuel she was accustomed to on the ramp. "....See you at breakfast." She smiled and was gone. Later on, in the darkness that still enveloped the camp, I went through the mess line, Cathy's Mess Line today, as she had placed herself and three other females on the serving crew, dishing each man's food with a smile -to our surprise. As we entered the dim mess tent we saw her refreshingly unique touch which set off cheers and excited whoops from us infantrymen headed north to battle. It was the pink pancakes-and not one, but two each today. She had substituted strawberry flavored nuclear milk for water in the Army recipe and with that deft female hand had injected a beam from home into our lonely morning with that indellibly civilian color. About an hour later, I waited outside the HQ room and heard the gravelly voice of the mess Sergeant. Over it, and quite clearly was Col. Roach's voice carrying that officious nerve-edged tone he got when he was angry. "Sir, she didn't know any better, she's in the AIR FORCE" the head cook complained, stressing the words "air force" as if to absolve any trespass by the fact of membership to that lower caste, home to morons, freeloaders and simpletons as far as the Army was concerned. "For Chrissakes Sergeant Garcia! Pink Pancakes!......." the Colonel frothed. He mumbled for a moment, then breathed in before yelling "It's just......NOT......TACTICAL!" -------------  FIRE IS OUR FRIEND!
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Replies:
Posted By: chikee
Date Posted: 25 September 2009 at 21:47
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We tend to forget the lives our soldiers are living as they are in the desert, away from home. I can only imagine the smiles on your faces over those pink-not tactical pancakes! We also forget how something so small and insignificant to ourselves can brighten up someone else's day. I enjoyed reading your memories! Thanks for sharing! ------------- -Chikee |
Posted By: stinky
Date Posted: 29 September 2009 at 02:45
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At the time that occurred, I was also in Saudi...a few hundred miles south. But, as a real soldier later infomed me, that was where they kept all the National Guard troops, in the rear, guarding the PX, so that the real soldiers would have something to come back to. At the time, I had the same opinion of the AF, "membership to that lower caste, home to morons, freeloaders and simpletons as far as the Army was concerned." I finished out my NG career w/the Air NG (started it in 12/91), so not only did I join that elite society ("home to morons, freeloaders and simpletons"), but, the best that I could do was become a weekender in the group. I couldn't even make it full time ;) THANKS FOR SHARING!!! ------------- John 14:6 |
Posted By: rivet
Date Posted: 29 September 2009 at 04:26
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Hey Stinky, glad you liked it and thanks a million for your
service. Let me tell you the truth, too: back then I wished I'd
been in your boots- a thousand times over. A BIG Airborne salute to you, bud! Poke around the forum, I've posted a couple other essays from my time there and over Panama. You might get a grin out of them. ------------- FIRE IS OUR FRIEND!
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Posted By: Montana Maddnes
Date Posted: 29 September 2009 at 05:29
 Great story Rivet------------- Montana Maddness God Bless The U.S.A. On the Highways for Jesus! |