I reported to Fort Ord, California for a duty assignment in the 7th Infantry Division while I was awaiting reassignment to calibration school. I was further assigned to the 2nd/17th Infantry Battalion, which was one of the ‘Buffalo’ regiments that could trace its direct lineage back to one of the African-American (Buffalo soldier) regiments formed in 1866. When I reported for duty at the unit, I was greeted by the first Sergeant. The first thing the first Sergeant asked after I greeted him was, “Sergeant Masters, do you know what a top is?” I thought to myself, “Man, this guy’s got a few screws loose. Either that or he’s been standing down by the ocean getting hammered by the salt too long. Yeah. That’s it. Too much sea salt.” Verbally, I replied, “Absolutely, first Sergeant. A top is either the highest point on an object or a little spinning toy that a kid plays with. And I’m pretty sure that you’re not talking about the highest point on an object. Cuz when I look around, there ain’t many high places around here. It all looks pretty much the same. Just a bunch of sand and scrub brush. Yep. I think you’re talking about the kids’ toy.” “What makes you say that?” “Just a hunch really. But you are a first Sergeant. At first, I did think you were off your rocker. You know. A little cuckoo. And a lot of people, soldiers that is, like to call first sergeants ‘tops’. But a first Sergeant is not a top and not to be toyed with.” “Did someone put you up to that bullshit?” “What? What bullshit?” “Did someone tell you to come in here and say some shit like that to screw with me?” “Aren’t you being a little paranoid? I just got here like five minutes ago. I don’t even know anybody in this company. I just said it because if I were a First Sergeant I sure as hell wouldn’t want somebody to call me a children’s toy.” “Usually that’s my speech. And you stole that from me. That’s why I think somebody put you up to it.” “Seriously, first Sergeant. I think you’re starting to lose it. Have you been praying to the salt gods too long?” “What that shit are salt gods?” “You know. They’re the gods that pop out of the ocean and hammer you with salt when you’ve been standing down there too long. See, you think you’re down there fishing. But you ain’t caught a damn thing. Nope. Nada. Zilch. Your eyes get this glazed look in them, and you forget where you are. Yeah. You’re caught in the grip of the salt gods.” “Man, you better get the hell on outta here with that crazy ass bullshit you been talking.” “And I didn’t steal your pitch or speech or some other such bullshit. By the way, Buffalo, first Sergeant.” I would’ve said bullshit (Buffalo bullshit) too, but I thought that would’ve been pressing my luck. I walked over toward the barracks to see if I could help the other squad leaders and the Platoon Sergeant roust out the soldiers for formation. When I walked into the barracks, there was a flyer announcing an upcoming field training exercise hanging on the bulletin board. The field training exercise was scheduled for the next week at a place called Camp Roberts, California. There were also two packing lists posted on the bulletin board for the field training exercise. One list was for a list of items to pack for the field training exercise, and the other list was for a list of items not to pack for the field training exercise. When I read the lists of what to bring and what not to bring to the field, based on the two packing lists, I had to scratch my head. Somebody had seriously lost their mind when they wrote the packing lists. All the shit that they said to not bring to the field training exercise was the stuff that a normal person would expect to bring such as wet weather gear, cold weather gear, non-perishable snacks, and toiletry items. I thought what the hell. And since it was rather late in the year that we were heading out to Camp Roberts or Camp Bob, as the soldiers affectionately called it, I wanted to know what the weather was going to be like. So, I went to talk to a few of the old-timers in the unit. I ran into Sergeant Pendergrass who had been in the unit for three years. I asked him, “Sergeant Pendergrass, the list of shit that they said to bring to the field doesn’t seem right. All the shit that they said don’t bring, is the shit we should bring. What’s up with that?” Sergeant Pendergrass looked at me and laughed and said, “Sergeant Masters, you’re kinda new here. You’ll learn. It’s reverse psychology. You bring what they say don’t bring and you’ll be straight. That’s the way it works. See, privates never bring what you tell them to bring but they always bring the shit you tell them don’t bring. It’s funny how it works that way. But it does. Works every damn time.” “So, tell me about this Camp Roberts place.” “Oh, Camp Bob. It’s down by a town called Paso Robles, California about 2 1/2 or three hours south of here. It’s inland. And it’s in the mountains. So, it’ll be colder there. We may even get snowed on while we’re there. If we’re lucky, some wild pigs will wander down close to our campsite.” “Okay, I’m not following. How does that make us lucky?” “We can kill a couple, dummy, don’t you see? Then, we can have us a pig roast. That would be a helluva lot better than eating C-rations, don’t you think?” “Oh, hell yeah.” “So, this’ll be your first trip to the field with the unit. You just got here, didn’t you?” “Yeah. Today is my first full day in the unit.” “Wow! One week in the unit and you’ll be heading to the field. Shit. I think that’s a new record. Gotta love the infantry. Buffalo.” “Oh, hell yeah. Gotta love the infantry. Buffalo.” Thus, my first month at Fort Ord, California was spent processing into post and deploying to the field in what would be just another exercise in futility.
by 
by 