Fleet Marine Life

When I was finally deployed to Afghanistan, after years of trying, I was excited. I just got to a new unit and they just slapped me on to this detachment after just a few weeks. Awesome, I thought. Little did I know, my higher ups were major-league douchebags. They were more worried about their careers and about everyone looking pretty than actually helping us do our jobs.

In the Corps, functionality is often trumped by appearance.

Shit can be as fucked up as a football bat, but if it sparkles and looks pretty, then apparently, all is well. In Afghanistan, I got bitched at because my uniform was dusty, and my boots were dirty and torn. I’m not sure if my higher ups see this but… Afghanistan is the dustiest fucking place on planet Earth.

Maybe if my higher ups didn’t concern themselves with trivial shit, operations might have run a bit more smoothly. One can dream, right?

I find it highly suspicious that one random guy in the Navy, that I worked near, offered more advice and help to me than all of my Sergeants and Staff NCOs throughout the entire seven month deployment.

My higher ups didn’t know to do their jobs. To hide this deficiency, they went around making stupid shit up and pestering junior Marines about the most garrison-like shit. All in this active war zone.

At one point in the deployment, I thought I had it figured out. I figured our planes didn’t go straight to Afghanistan, but instead, circled around for hours and then landed somewhere in the middle of Nevada. The Generals stuck all of us here and ordered all the SNCOs to play nothing but fuck-fuck games on us to see when someone would suck start our rifle.

Suck starting our rifles since 1775.