“It’s times like this, the leadership should be stabbed in the face!”
Spc. Grundle’s angry declaration woke me. We didn’t get much sleep, training in Texas for the war in Afghanistan, so long rides to and from the firing range in the back of a 5-ton truck were great opportunities for naps. The problem was, Grundle wouldn’t let anyone rest. “If this is how our leadership runs the unit, then we’re all going to die in Afghanistan!”
It was my first week as a combat engineer attachment to this Army National Guard infantry company, and I’d been assigned to fill a slot in third squad. I didn’t know the guys, but I’d quickly discovered that Grundle was a unique fellow, furious at being passed over for promotion despite his past stint in active duty, and possessed of a comical overestimation of his abilities and soldierly promise. But on that day, his cartoonish megalomania was in overdrive. Worse, the entire squad seemed to be going along with it, as though they supported him.
I was a corporal, a tricky rank in the Guard, in between junior enlisted and noncommissioned officer. The only thing the rank turned out to be good for was the technicality of outranking Grundle.
I started to doze off. “That’s why this company should promote based on experience instead of personal politics,” Grundle said.
“Spc. Grundle!” I shouted. “What is your problem?”
“My f***ing magazines were stolen!” He was missing a magazine? Weird. He didn’t seem like a reader. “There are a bunch of magazines laying around the barracks that are free to read.”
“No! Magazines for the M16!”
M16 magazines were cheap and abundant. “Just get some from supply.” Had he bought his own magazines? I was a standard-issue gear guy. If I needed something to carry out my orders, the Army would have to provide. But I knew some men bought all kinds of extra stuff, some of it useful, some to make them look like “operators.” I shot just fine with standard-issue iron sights. Grundle had fixed an enormous scope atop his aged M16. He’d later rig a janky foam canoelike cover for this ridiculous telescope.
“I taped ranger loops to the bottom for tactical quick draw! First sergeant said I would get mine back after the firing range. Now my magazines are gone!”
Grundle had been keeping me awake for this stupidity? “So they weren’t your magazines,” I asked, “just what you were issued?”
“They were mine! I taped on ranger loops so—”
“Loops of 550 cord, yeah. But you have six magazines in your pouches now. Just tape on new loops.”
“Yeah, right!” Grundle threw up his hands. “So they can just get stolen again, and then we’ll all die! Those were my magazines!”
“Your magazines?” I said. “Did you buy them with your own money?”
“No, but the ranger loops—”
“You know the serial number for those magazines? Are they on your OCIE inventory list from supply?”
“No,” he admitted.
“No, corporal, I’m sure you meant to say, specialist. Did you even sign a hand receipt for those magazines?”
“No, corporal.”
“So isn’t it true that you sh*t up two magazines just like everybody else, so that some privates could load them all before we trained on the shooting range today? And just like everybody else, you collected two empty magazines when you were done. Taping stupid loops on the bottoms doesn’t render them your property. Tape on new loops, or if you’re worried those magazines will be switched with others, don’t tape on any more loops. Either way, shut the f*** up about the stupid magazines! I’m trying to sleep!”
And at last, Grundle silenced his big nonsense rant. More important, the other specialists and PFCs in our squad realized we didn’t have to put up with his tirades. I’d won that battle, but my war (against Grundle) had only just begun.
Trent Reedy, author of several books, including Enduring Freedom, served as a combat engineer in the Iowa National Guard from 1999 to 2005, including a tour of duty in Afghanistan.
*Some names and call signs in this story may have been changed due to operational security or privacy concerns.
