Staff Sgt. Everett Patterson was an infantryman with the Minnesota Army National Guard and my squad leader in Afghanistan. He was a good soldier and a great leader. Patterson recognized where our skills lacked and helped us improve. He never allowed us to lapse in our duty, yet our squad meetings were filled with humor.
His obsession with safety made it clear that he would much rather suffer injury or death himself than allow one of us to experience the same. It was an honor to serve with him.
But sometimes his concern for us became tedious, even ridiculous. He once ordered Pfc. JayDee Weigand to wear gloves while driving a Humvee to protect his hands. Nothing, however, could compare to the safety training so asinine that after that, it became our metaphor for any useless Army task.
On a rare day during which we had a little down time, I was reading in my rack when someone knocked on our barracks room door. This usually meant a summons to a meeting, training, or a work detail.
My team leader, Sgt. Matthew Peterson, entered. “Gear up. We’re going to do Humvee rollover drills.”
I sighed and put down my book. “How do we practice that?”
“Easy!” Weigand smiled. “We drive to the mountains and crank her sideways on a steep slope. I just hope none of us get killed in this high-speed safety training.”
The squad gathered a few minutes later. “The Army is having troubles with Humvees rolling over, so they’ve published these guidelines.” Patterson read a slip of paper. “Vehicle rollovers occur when negotiating steeply sloped terrain or when other circumstances cause the vehicle’s center of gravity to shift in such an extreme way so as to cause it to roll or flip over. Rollovers can cause serious injury or death to soldiers, particularly to turret gunners.”
I was shocked that the Army would subject us to such obvious information.
He continued. “Utilize the following steps to save lives and reduce injuries during a vehicle rollover. One. Notify your fellow soldiers that the vehicle is rolling over.”
“Hmm. Now, do we call that in on the radio?” Weigand joked.
“Pop smoke?” Spc. Hanson added.
“Bird calls?” I said.
“Two. Quickly pull the turret gunner inside the vehicle.”
We agreed this was important, as the exposed upper torso of the gunner could easily get crushed during a rollover.
“Three. Secure yourself and your fellow soldiers until the vehicle stops moving. Four. Carefully exit the vehicle.”
Vehicle rollovers are a serious problem for our military. I do not belittle something that has taken the lives of good service members. I only laugh at the way we trained to deal with this challenge. The military has developed rollover simulators to help soldiers prepare for this danger. We had no such technology.
We had a dirt runway and an ancient unarmored Humvee.
“Drive along for a little bit, and then go through the steps,” Patterson said.
So we did. Weigand drove down the flat runway. I sat behind him, and Peterson rode shotgun while Hanson manned the turret.
“Now,” Peterson said.
“Attention!” I shouted. “The vehicle in which we are conducting movement is rolling over! Execute safety protocols.”
Weigand hit the brakes. Hanson ducked into the truck.
Simple. Could I go back and read now?
The training was a joke, and we joked about it.
We reran the drill. “Pardon me, but I believe the vehicle’s center of gravity is shifting in such an extreme way so as to cause it to roll or flip over.”
And again. “We’re rolling! We’re f—–g rolling! We’re all gonna die!”
We were mocking Patterson’s flat-road rollover training, but he took it well. Back then, it was an annoying waste of time, but I eventually finished that book, and Patterson, while caring for his men, gave us all something to laugh about for the rest of our lives.
Trent Reedy served as a combat engineer in the Iowa National Guard from 1999 to 2005, including a tour of duty in Afghanistan.
