Army Exploits: Up in Some Guts

Army Exploits Series

Even those who never served in the military are probably mindful of how unique the life of an enlisted person must be. As a veteran of seven years, I can certainly bear witness. Most could not imagine, though, that finding romance or even occasion for casual sex can, itself, be an exceptional challenge.

Without fail, every time I share any of my sordid tales of intimate congress while in the Army, people are overwhelmingly shocked and enthralled. Hopefully, with this series of short stories that I'm calling "Army Exploits," I can stir up a little amusement, curiosity and lust or possibly encourage others to write about their time in service.

My goal is to share authentic experiences, warts and all, as best as I can remember them. I'm not wanting to over embellish or try to make myself out to be a hero or playboy. This won't be in chronological order, either. My expectation is to submit stories as inspiration dictates. I always welcome comments, criticism, feedback of any kind. Thanks, and I hope you enjoy.

----------------------

Maria, Maria

Brad entered our room only to find me sitting, stupefied on the love seat. I had been at least enough in my right mind to slip my boxers back on. Other than that, I was naked, staring vacantly at the TV screen. He retrieved a beer from the dorm fridge, popped the top and tried to make sense of the scene.

Baffled, I assumed, he inquired, "alright, what's up with you?"

"Nothing," I mechanically responded. Although acknowledging my roommate, I remained enmeshed in an unremitting obtunded state. The VCR sounded off with a series of clicks and grinding sounds, indicating the tape had reached the end of its reel. When it automatically started rewinding, the loud static from the TV set finally snapped me back to my senses.

"Shit, dude, I just got laid." I said, aghast.

"Hell yeah," he lauded. "I was wondering if you were going to close the deal. I came by earlier and saw the sock, so I figured something went down. How was she?"

"Good," I responded innately. "I mean, at least I could tell she had a good time."

"Seriously, are you going to start bellyaching? That's the only action you've had in a while. She was sexy. I'd drink her fucking bath water at a chance." He grumbled.

"Nah, it's not that. I just......at one point I couldn't tell who was fucking who." I said staring off. Snapping back, I reported, "I guess that counts as my first three way, though."

"Wait, back up. What the fuck? Don't leave me hanging. It's confession time. Spill it; tell me everything." He demanded.

* * * * * *

My fellow veterans can certainly attest to how much the military strictly believes in what they call centralized training. In short, that means plucking you out of whatever your normal home and work life looks like and immersing you in the training atmosphere. You would be surrounded by other soldiers studying the same material and working toward the same goals. Arguably, it creates a learning experience that is exponentially more effective than the plain old classroom approach.

Without the distractions of home, it was implied, and sometimes out and out demanded that your free time was focused on studying and practicing. You generally would spend the workday getting lectures and demonstrations before being dismissed to a barracks until the next day. Throughout the whole course, you were surrounded by classmates. Eating every meal together, sleeping in the same building together, training and exercising together; all combined to pound home the same message. That message: you were there to learn, and you didn't get your life back until you did.

At Fort Hood, TX in 1998, my military career was at a crossroads. Halfway through my first enlistment, I was an E-4 and had met all the requirements to become a sergeant. Leadership was getting pressure from DC to push soldiers to get their stripes, as protracted numbers were not sufficient to meet expected demands. For months, I had been prodded, peer-pressured and at least once, bribed to check off every prerequisite in order to get promoted.

It was like chasing someone else's dream. Personally, I hadn't made my mind up that I wanted to be a sergeant. What's more, I really didn't I feel I was ready to decide just yet either.

The proverbial fork in the road wasn't as daunting for some. My roommate, who had only been in a few months longer than I, was faced with the same dilemma but had already resolutely chose his course. Having been screwed by the green weenie one too many times, he was dying to get out.

The last straw was when he got orders to Korea. Immediately upon receiving them, he marched right down to the retention office and put in his official refusal, which barred him from signing another enlistment contract. Effectively, he shut his reenlistment window before it had even opened.

Going along with making myself promotable was simply my way of keeping everybody off my back. My commander and first sergeant had a fucking hardon for getting as many soldiers as possible into the non-commissioned officer (NCO) ranks. They badgered us daily to work on promotion points, take otherwise elective training and classes and drilling us on the promotion board.

But still, I was still on the fence. I mean, a bump in pay and status sure sounded nice. It's just the extra responsibilities and scrutiny that it came with it concerned me. I had carved out a somewhat comfortable existence as a lower enlisted soldier if I wanted to cruise through my last twenty months under the radar. Getting promoted would turn all that upside down.

Brad, my roomie, seemed relieved since making his decision. Over the next year he would develop the worst case of short timer's syndrome I'd ever seen. For the remainder of his enlistment, he skirted every responsibility. He couldn't be bothered to shine his boots, much less turn wrenches in the motor pool.

Working nights as a bar-back, he was more focused on saving up some scratch for when he went back home than playing Army. Hell, sometimes he stayed out so late that he didn't even bother coming to morning formation. Nobody could tell him shit. He was getting out and didn't have a single give-a-fuck to spare.

My problem was that the end of my enlistment was not just over the next hill, like him. The people pressuring me toward promotion could still make life hell for me if I didn't play ball. Besides, I didn't exactly want to burn any bridges just yet. There were opportunities the Army could offer in exchange for reenlisting that I still found intriguing. So, my strategy was 'go along and get along,' at least for the time being.

Earlier, I lied when I said I had met every requirement to get promoted. Literally everything else, all but one had been checked off. I had been putting it off since it was going to require the most effort on my part. Before I had a chance to find an excuse and weasel out, my first sergeant had already secured a slot for me in the next Primary Leadership Development Course (PLDC) that was offered on base. This, as I'm sure you've determined, was the mandatory training program designed to teach you how to be a sergeant. Afterward, I would be expected to set aside my adolescent life as a lower enlisted and take up the more grown-up mantle of the NCO.

The course was three weeks long. Located on about a ten acre sized plot right between Hell on Wheels and Old Ironsides avenue, the campus consisted of classrooms, barracks space and parade grounds. A brisk march to chow three times a day was the only time spent off campus. Other than that, your life was confined to that miserable patch of grass and pavement.

Upon arrival, we were subject to shake down, ensuring we had all our required equipment and that we hadn't brought any contraband. A quick but comprehensive inspection of credentials was then conducted. Before you were officially accepted, a weigh-in, complete with body composition measurements was performed, to make sure no butterballs slipped into their ranks. Should anything be found amiss; If your shit wasn't thoroughly wired tight, you were dismissed back to your unit to explain to your First Sergeant why you couldn't hack it.

Once accepted, were organized into five platoons, each consisting of sixty personnel. There would be four squads per platoon. I was assigned to 2^nd platoon, 3^rd squad, with whom I did most of my training. After our cadre and instructors introduced themselves, we were briefed on the agenda for day two and dismissed to acquaint ourselves with the living conditions.

Each platoon had its own barracks building; these old, wood siding World War II era billets. Amenities included a wide open sixty-man bay, a latrine and a single private living quarters on one end. The main bay had two rows of bunk beds with wall lockers arranged in intervals between. Like Steve Rogers, it was frozen in time and pressed back into service when America needed it most. For most of us, we hadn't seen such squalor since basic training.

I assumed that a half century before, when this place was new, the private room was reserved for the platoon sergeant. At that time, it was used for storage and remained locked, off limits to students. Privacy for us, was rare as hen's teeth. Our latrine consisted of one open room with six toilets facing six sinks and an open shower with only eight shower heads. No stalls or partitions, there weren't even mirrors over the sinks. (If you've seen the first half of the movie Full Metal Jacket, just picture that.)

Shaving and tooth brushing was done quickly in the morning so that everyone got a chance to use the sink. If you needed to shit, you were out there for all your classmates to see. Showering meant forty-some-odd other swinging dicks jockeying for one of the few shower heads. Worst of all, if you felt the need to rub one out, well......tough shit.

Three weeks, on the surface, didn't seem like a long time, but, at twenty years old, my body was brimming with a constant torrent of hormones and disgusting bodily fluids. It was commonly known that if you didn't let some of it out occasionally it can cause permanent brain damage. Back in my home barracks, I took advantage of moments when my roomie was out or just ducked into the shitter when the need arose. The campus's decorum didn't exactly yield any shady spots for such activities. From day one, I knew this was going to be a serious problem.

...Oh, there were females. Did I mention we had females? There were about thirty-five, maybe forty of them evenly disbursed amongst the platoons. All of them resided in the same building and had access to two other private restrooms on campus. It only took about a week of self-deprivation and lack of any form of media to turn even the ugliest, fully clothed female into a hardcore porn-star.

There was So much variety for so small a group too. White, Black, Latina, Asian; there were tall ones with big tits, short ones with big asses, even a blonde, Barbie-type chick. There were two redheads, each of whom gave off a psycho vibe (standard diagnosis for almost every fire-crotch I've ever met, much less dated.) A few lesbians were scattered among them as well whom, I'm sure had no issue with the shower situation. "There's pussy for every palate," my bunkmate once said.

* * * * * *

Three weeks, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! three weeks of cold showers, unpredictable erections and balls the size of grapefruits had finally brought us to graduation day. Living up to the NCO Creed, which boasted, "No one is more professional than I...," we stayed the course, and earned the right to graduate despite the persistent underlying urges. Every one of us had suffered through and had only one thing on our collective mind.

Our platoon had even adopted an unofficial motto: "We gon be up in some guts!" It was, of course, authored by one of my fellow male students portending activities we'd be seeking out post-commencement, but by the final week, the females were even sympathetically chiming in.

Personally, I could have fucked a warm hole in the ground if nobody was watching. I did have at least one option for getting up in some guts, and she, while no prize, was dependable as could be. Marissa Spensor, or 'Chick,' as I called her was a female in my barracks with whom I had an informal arrangement. Any time we felt the need for human interaction, and we found ourselves otherwise unattached, we would meet up and bump uglies. If that fell through, I was more than okay with locking myself in my bathroom and making a batch by hand.

PLDC ran like a Swiss watch, and the last day was no exception. Come morning, we were to have all our gear packed up and ready to move out. They wanted the barracks vacated and cleaned before we took the long march to the theater for graduation. Early that evening cadre would be shaking down a new class and getting ready to start the cycle all over again.

It was customary for someone from your home company to meet with you on the last day and secure your belongings. Elsewise, your stuff had to sit out on the parade grounds until the graduation ceremony was finished. Staff Sergeant Richardson and Private First-Class Hubbard were tasked to me and were running agonizingly late.

As they were pulling up, I was one of the only ones left sitting out by my gear waiting. Had they waited any longer, it would be too late, and we'd be on our way to the theater leaving my gear unattended. There were only two other people from my whole platoon still waiting, in fact. Dykstra, I knew since we lived in the same barracks and Maria, as I soon found out, was the name of the other. For some reason, I could never remember his first name nor her last. He had some generic, run-of-the-mill white boy name and she a traditional surname of Latin origin.

Anyway, since it was just the three of us, we had plenty of time to get to know each other. As it turned out they were Active National Guard from Houston, there on TDY just for training. They had rented a car and traveled together with every intention of heading back right after graduation.

"Is anybody coming to pick up your bags?" I asked.

"No," Maria replied. "We weren't expecting this. We turned in the rental car so we wouldn't be charged for the whole time, and they can't get another out to us until after noon. I'm hoping everything will be fine here until we get back."

"That kind of sucks. I don't know if anybody will be here keeping watch. Can't you just lock everything up inside?" I inquired, trying to help.

"I already ran that one by the instructors; No can do. They said we should have been prepared for this; like we could possibly know." Dykstra whined.

When SSG Richardson arrived, he and Hubbard started loading my bags, insisting I not lift a finger. After I mentioned to him about Maria and D's situation and he was disappointed, to say the least. He was of the ilk that you were supposed to look out for fellow soldiers, especially when far from home. Without even asking, he and Hubbard started heaving their luggage in his van on top of mine.

"We're going to lock everything in an office by the duty desk. After graduation, we can give you a ride back to the company and then wherever you need to go after that." He assertively declared. "So, Congratulations, you're practically S'arnt Nunan now. How does that sound?" SSG Richardson teased.

The three of us rolled our eyes. "We've been calling each other sergeant the whole time. I think they kind of ruined it for me. I'd just as soon be called shitbag." I replied. "I'm just glad it's over. I can't wait to get back to my room."

"Well, I've got some bad news," he said. "Our benevolent battalion commander has decided we're going to have a field day. Everybody is to report to the rec area at Belton Lake. Mandatory fun for everyone, and he ordered that is our place of business until sixteen hundred, no exceptions."

"You gotta be effing kidding me S'arnt." I groaned.

"Nope, I even asked First S'arnt if you could get a pass; No dice!"

For some reason officers would get the bright idea that sometimes soldiers needed a day off work but also, they needed to be told what to do with said day off. I had been to several of these. They all seemed promising at first; maybe a volleyball tourney, tug-o-war, things like that. They would typically have arranged for some barbecue. Without fail about halfway through, you'd realize you were effectively still at work. All your dickhead supervisors and shitty coworkers would be there, so you basically got a day at the lake with people you despise.

* * * * * *

After the commencement ritual, a group of soldiers from my company tracked me down a began heaping praises on me. Soon, I noticed Maria and Dykstra patiently waiting nearby. I waved them over and made introductions as if I'd known them my whole life. In no time, there were volunteers ready to take them back to the company. Somebody even suggested they come out to the lake with us.

"Yeah," I said. "That'd be great. You can unwind a bit before hitting the road. I mean, at least you have some free food, right?"

They were timid at first, but by the time we made it to the company, they were onboard. We secured their bags and showed them up to the barracks so they can change clothes. I put on some knee length board shorts, sandals, and a pullover shirt. After I was dressed, I headed back downstairs to meet up with the others.

Maria out of uniform turned out to be a looker. Don't get me wrong, it's not like I hadn't noticed her before. Of the about forty female students, I'm sure I had time to think up kinky little fantasies about each one of them. Plus, I already knew she was beautiful, at least from the neck up. She had a gorgeous nearly copper complexion and the most unique clear-blue eyes. I was pleasantly shocked to find out she had a body to match.

Army fatigues made her look like she had the body of a garden gnome, but it seems her tree suit was obscuring some of her best features. Not that I was in any position to cull. Should a garden gnome, bridge troll or even a wood elf see fit to throw some cooter my way, best believe I'd be taking it down.

If she claimed to be over five feet tall, then I'd have to be about seven (which I clearly wasn't). Weighing in at probably a buck-o-five, she looked like she was ideally proportioned. Most notably, she had these expansive hips, and from behind, they framed her magnificently plump, heart-shaped hiney.

She wore a spaghetti strap tank and soccer shorts. They were the kind that my stepfather would refer to as her airplane shorts. "Just enough to cover the cockpit," he'd say. Her legs were rippled with muscles from being a dedicated runner. I wasn't not sure if she left her tits in her uniform, or what because she was as flat busted as me when it got too close to payday. That being said, it was the only disappointment I could make out. She was a dime any day of the week.

Dykstra rode with Hubbard to see about the rental, and they would meet us afterward at the rec area. Maria wanted to ride with me. She practically begged.

I think that is when I started to notice that her outfit wasn't the only thing that had changed. She became immodestly flirtatious all of a sudden, and more playful. Complementing everything from my played out pucca shell necklace to my fifteen-year-old Mercury Cougar, she laid it on thick. Oddly, I noticed also that the more attention she showed me, the more her accent went from East Texas to conspicuously below the border.

"So, you got a boyfriend?" I inelegantly asked.