Army humor of a soldier questioning a “command decision”, and disagreeing on a Forward Operating Base (FOB). Whether in the Air Force, Marines, Navy or Army life on the FOB is interesting and requires humor and a DIY attitude to get things done….even when some decisions are questionable. Ever agree to disagree? Or what about disagree because it is just plain common sense. Sometimes despite best intentions some “command decisions” are just plain wrong.

The ‘Brilliant’ Command Decision: Sandbagging in the Rain”

It was just another day at Forward Operating Base (FOB) Nowhere, where the weather alternated between boiling hot sun and random torrential downpours. You know, the kind of rain that feels personal, like Mother Nature has beef with you and wants you to know it.

We were all lying low in our tents when the call came over the radio: “All units, meet in the motor pool. Mandatory. Out.”

Mandatory? That could only mean one thing—command decision incoming. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned during my time in the Army, it’s that command decisions are a mix of “this is gonna suck” and “who thought this was a good idea?”

Our platoon shuffled into the motor pool like zombies who hadn’t had their morning coffee. There was Staff Sergeant Jenkins, looking as confident as ever in his decisions, which usually ranged from “mildly questionable” to “I’m gonna regret this in 10 minutes.”

“Alright, listen up!” he barked, standing in front of us like he was about to announce something monumental. “We’ve got a new task from higher up. We’re reinforcing the perimeter with sandbags.”

I immediately knew something was off.

“Sandbags, Sergeant?” I asked, raising my hand like I was in high school again. “In the rain?”

He shot me a look that said, I am not in the mood for this, private. But I was undeterred. When stupidity beckons, I answer the call.

“Yes, sandbags,” he confirmed through gritted teeth.

“But, Sergeant,” I continued, “doesn’t sand, like, absorb water? So, basically, aren’t we filling sacks with… mud?”

He glared. “Look, I don’t make the decisions, I just pass them down.”

“Who does make the decisions? Because I’d love to meet the person who thought the best time to handle sand was during a rainstorm,” I said, as I mentally pictured some general sitting in a dry, air-conditioned office sipping coffee while coming up with this stroke of genius.

A couple of the guys snickered, but Jenkins wasn’t having it. “Just get to work,” he grumbled.

So, there we were, a bunch of disgruntled soldiers sloshing through the mud, trying to fill sandbags with what had become the consistency of mashed potatoes. I’d shovel in a few scoops of soggy sand, heft the bag, and then watch in slow-motion horror as it sagged like a water balloon and burst open on the ground.

Private Rodriguez, always the optimist, piped up, “Hey, at least we’re technically building trenches. I mean, look at all this mud.”

“No, Rodriguez,” I said, wiping muddy water off my face, “we’re not building trenches. We’re just… making the world’s worst smoothie.”

By hour two, the situation had gotten worse. The rain had picked up, and the sandbags were about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. People were losing it. Murphy, our squad’s conspiracy theorist, was convinced this was some sort of sick psychological experiment.

“They’re testing us, man!” he said, waving his arms wildly. “They wanna see how far we’ll go before we snap! I bet there are cameras everywhere.”

Jenkins, hearing this, groaned, “Murphy, there are no cameras. Just fill the damn bags.”

“That’s exactly what they want you to say!” Murphy shot back.

And then there was Private First Class Mason, the FNG (new guy), who was earnestly trying to be a team player. Bless his heart. He lifted a soggy sandbag and smiled like he’d accomplished something. “Guys, I think I’m getting the hang of this.”

At that exact moment, his sandbag split open, dumping mud all over his boots. Mason looked down in defeat. I couldn’t resist.

“Welcome to the Army, kid. Where the decisions are made miles away by people who really want us to suffer.”

The rain showed no signs of letting up, and neither did the absurdity of the task. We’d moved maybe 20 sandbags into position before the mud started swallowing them whole, like some kind of angry Earth monster rejecting our half-hearted attempts at defense.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Jenkins came over the radio. “Alright, pack it up, boys. Command says the mission’s called off.”

Called off?! We’d spent the whole morning fighting the rain, the mud, and our collective sanity, and now commanddecided to call it quits? I couldn’t believe it.

I looked around at my squad, all of us covered head to toe in mud, sand, and regret. “You know,” I said, trying to find the silver lining, “at least we got a free spa day out of it.”

Rodriguez nodded sagely. “Yeah, I hear mud baths are supposed to be good for your skin.”

Murphy, still convinced we were part of a government experiment, just muttered, “It’s not over. They’re watching.”

As we trudged back to our tents, Jenkins stopped me. “Next time, try keeping your opinions to yourself.”

I grinned, wiping mud off my forehead. “Sure, Sergeant. But you know, someone’s gotta question the brilliant decisions coming down from on high. Keeps us grounded… or at least, keeps us from drowning in sandbag mud.”

Jenkins shook his head but couldn’t hide the smirk. “Get outta here, Private.”

And that, my friends, was the day I learned that no matter how ridiculous the command decision, there’s always room for a little humor in the mud.

The Frontlines

It’s hard to believe, but some of the comics I whipped up during my 20-year military career have actually made it to print! These humorous, and occasionally sharp-edged, reflections are fueled by amazing mentors, awesome friends, and a serious appreciation for sarcasm. Check them out on Amazon: Amazon The Frontlines. Also check out: The Frontlines Shop

 

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