The Former SGT Gutkin

In the weeks leading up to our mission in Central America we had been working at the Headquarters building in Draper, UT. Gathering tools and completing endless amounts of online courses, and death by powerpoint briefings. In the hallway leading to the office there is a large recruiting poster. It’s holographic so depending on which angle you view it from there are different images. In bold letters across the top it reads “CITZEN SOLDIERS.” The main picture is of 9 or 10 people both men and women from different ethnic backgrounds, all of them wearing civilian clothes and sporting huge smiles. Walking past it I noticed that when the angle changed the citizens changed into soldiers, standing at attention in their shiny new class A uniforms. Noticeably gone were their smiles, I’m sure they were photographed that way to show their new level of professionalism. To me it looked like they had been happy as civilians, but now after joining the Army had realized they had made a huge mistake, and the uniform/Army was making them miserable.

They had held our connecting flight in Houston as long as possible, but now it was time to move. SGT Gutkin (pronounced Goot-ken) had shown up at the gate left his carry on luggage with us and gone to get some food. That was the last we saw of him, after repeated calls to his cell phone and pages over the airport intercom we had to get on the plane without him.

“I want you to make sure that man gets a court marshal.” Said the small Canadian woman sitting next to me. The baggage guys had been under our plane looking for SGT Gutkin’s luggage for the last 45 minutes. Since he had not boarded the flight his luggage had to be removed, severely delaying our take off. Finally we pushed back from the gate, relieved to be on our way to Panama.

As the plane taxied from the gate to the runway Captain Thomas was busy on his cell phone, calling Headquarters in Utah trying to find out what happened to Gutkin. If Gutkin was smart he would call headquarters and coordinate what to do next through them, and if he was smart he wouldn’t have missed the plane in the first place, we were quickly learning what a dummy former SGT Gutkin really was.

Being miserable in the Army is not uncommon, every soldier understands that things going wrong is part of the job. This was the first time I had seen a case of DUMM syndrome (Dummies in Uniform Made Miserable) become contagious, and spill over into the civilian world. During all the waiting and phone calls CPT Thomas had been informed of riots in Panama City. He was told that if we could get off the plane we should. So moments before the plane throttled up for take off we turned back for the gate. I always get a laugh when the Army pretends to care about my safety. They went out of their way to save me from savage tourist destination Panama, but anytime I want to volunteer for a mission to Iraq I’ll be gone in a heartbeat.

Groans filled the plane as the pilot announced we were headed back to the terminal so a few of the passengers could get off. Thankfully he didn’t announce anything about the riots in Panama. Honestly a couple of school girls could have been pulling each others hair in the streets and the Army would have shut the mission down. I felt terrible for the people left on the plane. One passenger was on her way to her sister’s funeral which was being held the next day, and was going to miss her connection in Panama City. I never found out how long the flight was delayed, but after having to pull back to the gate, then waiting for the baggage guys unload our luggage, I’m sure it was a long time.

After picking up most of our bags, and visiting the lost luggage office to tell them which bags had gone to Panama without us we headed to a nearby hotel. If former SGT Gutkin would have just gotten on the plane it wouldn’t have been delayed, and we wouldn’t have had time to get the message about a couple of homosexuals spraying each other with water pistols. We would have made it to Panama on schedule and the mission would have gone on. Gutkin threw a major wrench into things, when the Lifers finally found him it was around 11:30pm he had managed to stay lost for nearly 10 hours even though we had airport security looking for him.

A soldier can get away with several small mistakes, but one big one was enough. As I type we are on plane to Panama, while Gutkin is on his way back to Salt Lake City. He will be picked up at the airport, and taken to headquarters where his stinking cowardly body will be ripped apart limb from limb by grouchy Sergeant Majors, Colonels, and Captains.

Looking out the window of the plane I can see Panama City, the crossroads of the world. Tall buildings and twisting roads jammed with wild drivers, smoldering buses and honking horns. It is good to be back but one thing is certain; I am really going to miss my motorcycle.

--Ryan

True Grit

Our trip so far has had some ups and downs. Getting past the Mexican Drivers permit in Sonora was a nightmare. Worrying about Mitch being able to continue the adventure after the breakdown in Arizona were some of the worst days ever. But we grit our teeth and drive on.

The first time I can remember having to grit my teeth was Basic Training. Dingo Boy was saluting with his left hand and couldn't figure out why Drill SGT Pipken was so furious. I was nearly in tears I was laughing so hard, but after a few weeks of training I had found that gritting your teeth was a pretty good cover for smiling. Watching Privates get “smoked” is the most entertaining example of modern day torture a person can hope to see. But if a Drill Sergeant can see that your enjoying it you will be the next participant.

"Hey Dingo Boy! One of these things is not like the other." Drill Sergeant Pipkin shouts standing 3 inches away from Dingo Boys face, foaming at the mouth and spitting as he speaks. "You had better fix yourself, before I throat chop you and skull drag you up and down the Parade field." The problem here is that Dingo Boy is standing directly across from me, like an image in the mirror. So when the order came to present arms, and all our arms snapped to our brow in a sharp salute Dingo Boy did look like the rest of us. Since he could only see what was straight in front of him he had snapped his left hand up to match my right. It wasn't his fault. Dingo Boy was from a backwoods town in Louisiana, and the most brainless thickheaded person I have ever met.

The Drill Sergeants barrage of insults continued. "I'll throw your butt so far out of the Army that when you land there won't be anything but brown rip-stop on your uniform!" I bite down hard to cover the smile that is brewing my face grimaced in pain. Maybe it's the sun in my eyes, maybe my muscles are sore from all the PT this morning, maybe it's a blister in my boot from yesterday's 10K road march, but as long as I keep gritting my teeth maybe Pipkin wont notice that it's really a smile. "Hey Dingo Boy do you wake up every morning and hit yourself in the head with a brick?"

I am trying to help and while keeping my salute in place I make eye contact with him and begin to move my elbow up and down, trying to hint that it's his right hand he needs in the air. Playing off my direction he begins move his elbow higher and lower, changes the angle of his hand, moves his fingers above his eyebrow and then down below. But still the fury of Drill SGT. Pipken rains down on him. "Dingo Boy I will kill you!" Finally noticed by the Drill SGT I begin to knock out an unspecified number of push ups, while keeping my body stiff I slowly move up and down parallel to the ground, my hands cold on the January asphalt of Fort Leonard Wood, while paying the price for laughter and watching sweat roll off my brow, still I grit my teeth.

Driving from Sayulita to Guadalajara we hit our first rainstorm. Drops of rain big as your fist pummeled us from the sky as we drove through mountain passes soaking us completely. We stopped for a moment to put the rain fly’s on our tank bag then kept going. During the heat of summer the heavy trucks create grooves in the soft asphalt. Now those grooves are pools of water so we must ride in the middle to stay on the high ground and avoid hydroplaning. Oncoming traffic is sending a constant tidal wave of water at us from the road. Forcing me to grip my handlebars tight as the waves crash against me. I shake my head after each swell breaks trying to clear water off the visor of my helmet, hoping to catch a glimpse of traffic before the next wave breaks.

During a lull in traffic I glance in my mirror to check on Mitch. The black bandanna with the skulls is off his face and around his neck. I can see his teeth. But can’t be sure if it is from pleasure, or pain.

--Ryan