This entry ... well ... it's kind of a big deal

Wednesday, Nov. 15, 2006, 11:27 p.m.

Four and a half years ago, I was a brand-new disgruntled soldier going through Basic Training. I was not, by any account, good at being a soldier. I was not even, by the account of my sprained ankle, good at maneuvering my way through a simple obstacle course without falling on my ass. I actually kind of sucked at pretty much everything except eating meals reallyreallyreally quickly, but that's neither here nor there.

Basic lasted nine weeks. I wore giant, thick-rimmed, thicker-lensed, Army-issue glasses, I did millions of push-ups, and it was very hot. There was also, I recall, quite a bit of pain involved.

The majority of it has since become a sort of nasty, sweaty blur in my memory. However, one particular incident has come back to haunt me today.

It was the final day of our grenade training. Our company was driven out to the grenade range, and each of us new Privates were given a single, live grenade (contained in something akin to a Yahtzee cup) and very specific instructions:

"Hold your grenade firmly with both hands, up against your chest. Run as fast as you can to the grenade pit [a six-square-foot or so area of ground with a one-foot wall on the near side and a several-foot wall on the far side] while yelling out 'Right right right!' if you are right-handed, or 'Left left left!' if you are left-handed. Jump into the grenade pit and throw your grenade, according to the instructions given to you by the drill sergeant waiting for you there."

Easy. Unless you're a colossal fuck-up, like I certainly was.

I held my grenade firmly with both hands up against my chest. I ran like the wind, shouting "Right right right!" I jumped toward the grenade pit.

This is where my body, acting sans brain, decided to stop following instructions.

My right foot apparently thought that it would be too much of a hassle to clear a one-foot wall, and it rebelled. I pitched forward, and in the moment before my violent collision with the ground, I thought three things:

1. "If I put out my arms to catch myself, I will drop my grenade."

2. "I cannot drop my grenade, under any circumstances."

3. "Fuck."

My face hit the dirt. My Kevlar helmet smashed into my Army Strong glasses. My glasses slammed into the bridge of my nose, which promptly broke. I bled profusely.

I did not drop my grenade.

As I scrambled blindly to my feet, blood gushing from my nose, the drill sergeant asked me if I still wanted to throw my grenade. Hell yes, I wanted to throw my grenade. So, I threw it, miraculously without further trouble. It went boom. And then I ran back to the waiting area, where fifty of my fellow soldiers, accompanied by several drill sergeants, laughed their asses off as I wiped the blood from my face.

I'll give you a second to regain your composure, and then I'll explain why I felt it necessary to share that unspeakably embarrassing story with you tonight.

Are you ready?

Are you sure?

Okay.

Today I found out that I will not be getting out of the Army any time in the near future.

Unbeknownst to me or any of my immediate supervisors, a stop-loss/stop-movement order has been in effect for us since May, and in order for me to get out of the Army on schedule, my lieutenant colonel (whom I would rather eat shards of glass than work for, let alone deploy with) would have to grant his permission. He has not granted permission. The reason for his reluctance is simple: if he lets me get out of the Army, he will not get a replacement for me in time for the deployment, and he will be fucked.

When I was given all of this information earlier today, it was like I was falling uncontrollably into that damn grenade pit all over again. I couldn't reach out to catch myself -- all I could do was come to grips with the fact that my face was about to get seriously busted.

Needless to say, it hurt. A lot. And as I stood back up, I thought, "Well, I guess I better throw this motherfucking grenade." And I wished it was not a metaphorical grenade, but that is irrelevant.

What is relevant is the information I was given next.

Although the boss won't allow me to leave the Army, he can allow me to leave my current duty station -- and get a Replacement Me -- if and only if I move to a different duty station within Army Public Affairs.

That's not really a bad option, right?

Here, my friends, is the catch (and I beg you to stay with me on this one, because it's hard to explain): since I have less than a year left in my contract, I am not authorized to move to a different duty station. The only way I would be able to move myself out of my current division and imminent deployment is if I choose to [gulp] reenlist. For three years.

Recap:

A three-year reenlistment will get me a new job assignment (probably in northern Virginia, in case you're interested) and the assurance that I will not have to endure a deployment under the leadership of my current lieutenant colonel (the one who banned me from writing commentaries for our newspaper).

Non-reenlistment will get me back to Iraq, while keeping me under the thumb of the aforementioned leadership, and then eventually out of the Army after that ordeal is over.

Do you see my dilemma?

Thus, I have chosen a reenlistment, as it offers me the opportunity to not have an even-shittier-than-last-time deployment. I will be in the Army for three more years. I am not the first soldier to be in a situation like this, and I will not be the last. I will fucking deal with it, because I am the dumbass who signed the contract.

Here I go, running back to a crowd of my peers, blind and bloody -- but with the knowledge that even though my original plan got fucked up, I managed to pull my clumsy ass out of it and continue on in the least retarded way possible.

Still, I am compelled to add ...

FUCK.