u/Best-Structure62

Anyone who has spent any time in the military has experienced stupid.  I don’t mean being ordered to inventory something that was counted and accounted for just hours ago, or dusting something that does not require any attention.  Some of these items, however absurd, make sense later on.  I’m talking about the class of stupid that ends up being depicted in books, TV and film, and to the average civilian who has never spent a second in uniform and is absurd both on its face and in its entirety.  

I’m talking about an industrial grade level of stupid that is a trip to a parallel universe.  A dimension where the ludicrous, ridiculous and the absurd rule.  A place where logic, common sense and critical thought cease to be.  There’s the sign post up head, it reads, “deposit brain here”.     

It started from somewhere higher up, it always from somewhere higher up. The officers at the MSD received orders to have the enlisted staff to deploy with our Vietnam era M16’s and provide security for something sensitive and important…without ammunition.  Now, I honestly don’t remember all of the details about the background of the how and the why, but I do remember the details on assembling at the weapons locker and being issued our Vietnam era M16’s, complete with the little metal guard that prevented the user from switching the weapon to full automatic. 

Yes sir, Dear Gentle Reader, not only did the Coast Guard not trust its members enough to issue the rank and file with fully functioning assault rifles, now they didn’t trust us to even issue us with ammunition. Let that sink in for a moment before you read on. 

GM3 Rusty, BM3 Dave and I were standing in the weapons locker while Lt. (J.g.) Lou was issuing us our weapons and giving us directions on the mission.  When he told us that we would not be issued ammo Rusty, Dave and myself simultaneously looked at  Lt. (J.g.) Lou with a look of shock, our jaws dropped in unison. 

“Sir”, I said to Lt. (J.g.) Lou, “This is really a bad idea”. Lt. (J.g.) Lou looked at me as he handed me an M16’s and said something along the lines of orders are to be obeyed and not questioned.  I reiterated my point that this was a bad idea and then expanded that without ammo the M16’s were just clubs, expensive clubs at that. Lt. (J.g.) Lou drew up close to me and my 5ft 6in frame to his 6ft frame and looked down at me.  “Petty Officer GooBlatz, are you questioning my lawful legal orders?” 

This was more or less what I wanted to happen.  “Sir”, I replied, “I am questioning a lawful, legal order, one that is a foolish order.  Now, I had done it.  Lt. (J.g.) Lou stepped up and placed his nose to my nose.  Now, for the rest of the distraction.  “Sir” I said, “If something happens and one or more of us loses one or more of these fully automatic assault rifles because we cannot defend ourselves there will be a lot of paperwork explaining just how this happened”.   I could see a vein start to throb on Lt. (J.g.) Lou’s forehead and smell the coffee on his breath. 

Lt. (J.g.) Lou jabbed me repeatedly on my chest with his finger, he was visibly pissed and his full attention was focused on me as he spoke, which was my intent.  “Petty Officer GooBlatz you are never to question an order, especially when it is given by a commissioned officer!”  

In my peripheral vision I could see Dave and Rusty palming loaded magazines, they had understood my unspoken intent.  Once more I stood my ground to give enough time for Rusty and Dave to get at least one magazine per weapon and hide them in their pockets or wherever.  “Sir, I feel that it is my duty to point out information to my duly commissioned officers who are lawfully and legally placed in charge over me with all pertinent information so they can make the best decisions possible.” 

The vein on Lt. (J.g.) Lou’s forehead stopped throbbing and he backed away from me just enough for me not to smell the coffee on his breath.  “Do not ever  question my authority ever again!  He jabbed his finger into my chest to drive the point home. He seemed to be looking for a way out of an awkward situation, but I didn’t care, I had achieved what I wanted.

Lt. (J.g.) Lou quickly issued us with our weapons and a single empty ammo magazine that we slapped into the magazine well.  We then piled into the government issued pick-up truck, traveled to the middle of nowhere and completed the mission of standing around and twiddling our thumbs.  When we returned Lt. (J.g.) Lou let GM3 Rusty handle the detail of returning the M16’s to the weapons locker and Lt. (J.g.) Lou, well Lou was never the wiser of what had happened.   

  

The MSD Series, Part Seventeen…Denied!

November through March is the rainy season in California, a period of time where 50% to 75% of the annual rains fall.  During the short time of the rainy season nature springs to life with a true show of color as native plants and non-native plants that have adapted flower quickly bloom before the dry season begins and California earns its name as, “The Golden State” as the floria dies back to a golden color. 

The rainy season is also the season when a large number of pleasure boats sink, usually at their mooring dock. The California Delta is filled with pleasure boat marinas. Some of the marinas are grand establishments, others are in various states of decay, their days of glory faded along with their original owners.  A shockingly large number of boats moored at these various marinas rarely if ever visited by their owners.   And there they sit, neglected until the bilge pump fails.  The boat fills with water and eventually sinks.  

And so, it was one April day that I came into work. The skies were clear and gentle hills surrounding the Naval Weapons Station were covered in flowers and greenery. In the mornings, before quarters we had been watching on TV the ongoing drama with the Waco Siege in our common area as it unfolded.  During our lunch break we watched the assault and the fire that consumed the compound with a mix of shock and horror. Little did I know that in an odd way I was going to be caught up in the drama.

A few days later after the tragedy I got a phone call from a person who claimed they had interacted with me on a pollution investigation.  They claimed that they were watching the Waco assault on TV as it was unfolding and videoing the event also.  The man was adamant that he saw Branch Davidians members being gunned down by the FBI who were trying to surrender and the TV broadcast had been cut to prevent the public from seeing the truth.  He was absolute in his belief that his video tape of the event had recorded the truth, and he wanted to get his video tape out into the public.

For the life of me I could not recall the man’s name, or our interaction.  I put the man on hold and started looking through my boarding bag to see if there was any paperwork of an investigation to back up his claim, or at least to refresh my memory.  Nothing, I asked around the office if anyone knew the caller, once more nothing. I checked the computer database, nothing. 

I got back on the line with the caller and tried to explain to him that I could not recall our meeting, the inspection, nor had anyone else in the office had an interaction with the man.  Now the caller really went off.  Now, I personally was in on the conspiracy to keep the truth from coming out.  I had been at the siege in Texas, saw it all, and was sworn to secrecy by the FBI.  

I tried to explain to the man that I had not been to Texas since 1972 when I was the tender age of eight.  It was a day trip to Dallas!  No amount of reason was going to change this man’s mind.  I, and by extension the Coast Guard, an organization he previously held in high esteem, were part of the evil that was secretly influencing the public.

Now, Dear Gentle Reader, by this time in my career I had learned how to handle the general public, I had learned how to handle a reporter, especially the “stupid question” reporter.  What I had not learned how to handle was the conspiracy kook.  In fact, this was my very first conspiracy kook.  I am here to tell you Dear Gentle Reader that no amount of rational argument, no matter how many verified facts you present, a kook is gonna kook.  The only thing that I could think of is how to extricate myself from this phone call with some level of dignity and respect for the caller.

…Who was I kidding…

Just then Zoomer stuck his head into the bullpen and shouted that he needed help with something.  My salvation had arrived.  “Sir”, I said.  “My boss needs my help in changing the lube oil on our flying saucer”, and I hung up the phone.

A week or so later one of the reservists and I were talking and it turned out that on a drill weekend they had gotten the call for a sunken boat and so DC1 Kirk, a reservist, grabbed my boarding kit and handled the investigation.  DC1 Kirk went on to say how odd the boat owner was.  Since it was my boarding kit, Kirk gave the man one of my business cards so he could contact me for any follow-up questions. As a reservist Kirk did not have access to the database and could not enter the inspection into the records, and he was waiting until his next drill to give me the inspection documents.  I related my interaction with the man to Kirk and we both agreed that a kook is gonna kook. 

The MSD Series, Part Sixteen…Gimmie Back My Bullets

Most Coast Guard inspections are uneventful occurrences, at least for the Coasties.  It doesn’t matter if it is for a recreational vessel, a commercial vessel, or a shore-side facility, over time they all have a tendency to blend into a fog.  But from time to time there is an inspection that sticks in a person's mind for any number of reasons, both great and small.  I don’t recall the exact event, but I was sent out to conduct a pollution investigation for a sunken pleasure craft at one of the numerous sloughs in the California Delta. 

For those of you Dear Gentle Readers who do not know what the California Delta is, it is a large delta that encompasses the low-lying wetlands area from the upper San Francisco Bay to north of Sacramento, south to Stockton.  The delta is 738,000 acres or 298,658.0 hectares of wetlands fed by five rivers, the Sacramento, the San Joaquin, the Mokelumne, the Cosumnes and the Calaveras. 

Mankind being Mankind over the past 150 years has been very busy changing this part of nature to suit Mankind's vanities.  The past 150 years have seen channels dredged, sloughs cut, levees built, and areas drained of water to suit Mankind's vision of the day.  The result has been the creation of some 3,000 miles of waterways that are navigable by commercial sea-going ships to the modest raft. 

This particular day I was on a levee road looking at a larger recreational boat that ran aground and sank.  The owner, an older African American man, was sitting by the dirt levee road on a salvaged folding chair not having a good day.  A sheen of gasoline and motor oil oozed from the sunken vessel and drifted lazily on the current.  The boat, an older boat, in rough condition before the sinking was obviously a total loss.  

I opened up my top opening metal clip board, pulled out the appropriate forms and began getting information from the owner.  This man was polite and answered all of my questions, so I decided to be as humane and gentle as possible. After all this poor man had just lost what was obviously his pride and joy that was now laying just yards away completely submerged.  

I had finished up the paperwork and gave the owner a copy of the documents to look over and ask me any questions before I finished up.  As I was explaining the various parts of the document, I noticed that his eyes did not track along with what I was reading, and then it hit me.

He could not read…

I don’t know what happened in this man’s life in a wealthy country such as the USA where in his elementary school years he did not learn how to read, but here we were.  I thought to myself, “how do I do my job properly, how do I do right by this man, and how do I not embarrass him”.  I thought to myself for a minute or so.

“Sir”, I said to the man, “there is a lot of legal information here that can be very confusing and frightening.  How about I read it aloud to you and if you have any questions, you stop me and ask them”.  The look of relief on his face.  “Yes, I would like that very much” was his response.  So, I read to him the entire form and paused from time to time so he could ask questions.  At the end of the investigation I handed him his copy of the report, my business card and wished him well.

I don’t recall exactly what the outcome of the investigation was and up to a certain point I did not care.  What I have become aware of is just how many people in our society are functionally, or totally illiterate; or functionally, or totally innumerate.  These folks develop amazing coping skills, and I have a certain level of awe of them mixed with a level of sadness at their plight. 

The next time you are at the grocery store, and you see a person hand over a wad of money to the clerk and the clerk counts back the money change and keeps the sales amount for the till, be thankful, and most importantly be kind.                

The MSD Series, Part Fourteen…Zoomer   

And if you feel inclined donate to the legal fund that is fighting this in court, thank you.

Stop Heavy Industry in Our Neighborhoods – West Lafayette, Indiana

It was the middle of the workday, and the bullpen was at capacity with the enlisted staff.  Normally, one or more of us would be out conducting a boarding, a pollution investigation, or some other duty, such as mowing the grass, or polishing some brightwork.  But this day was different in that everyone was in the bullpen doing paperwork. 

Lt. Bunk came into the Bullpen with a hand-held radio and announced, “I think we have a pipeline leak”.  We all stopped what we were doing and gave Lt. Bunk our full attention.  Not that we were enamored with Lt. Bunk, or his presence, but a pipeline leak was something new for us.   

Apparently, Lt. Bunk received a phone call from someone at the Naval Weapons Station of a peculiar odor near the top-secret Q area. Given the sensitivity of the Q area, Lt. Bunk took it upon himself to travel to the area and look around.  It did not take long before his nose led him to a pool of liquid that had a chemical-like odor about it gently bubbling up from the ground.  Lt. Bunk immediately came back to our office and made his announcement.      

Now, all of us had been trained and had extensive experience with pollution coming from a sunken boat, an industrial outlet into a water way, or run off from a roadway.  But none of us had any background with an underground pipe leak.  None of us really knew where to start, so we all piled into vehicles and drove the short distance to where Lt. Bunk found the pool of foul-smelling liquid.  We walked a few yards from where we parked along the side of the road and followed our noses to a low spot in the scrub where a pool of a thick dark liquid was bubbling up from the ground.  The pool of goo had a distinct petroleum-like order.  It was something straight out of the open of the Beverly Hillbillies.   

We looked around for any signs of other leaks, or a marker that might indicate an underground pipeline, but there was no indication of either.  BM3 Dave and I went back to the MSD to get the mobile command post, the 33 ft Winnebago Chieftain Motorhome and we also brought with us two gas meters.  One gas meter to measure for the presence of explosive/flammable vapors and another gas meter that could measure for four different types of flammable/explosive gases.  

BM3 Dave found a decent flat spot just off of Waterfront Rd to park the Winnie and I broke out the two gas meters.  BMC Z and Lt. Bunk took the gas meters and began sampling the air around the pool for the presence of flammable/explosive vapors and to potentially discover what exactly we were dealing with.  It didn’t take long before the gas ID meter read positive for Benzene, Toluene and Xylene vapors.  All of which are highly flammable, toxic, and a carcinogen.  We hit the lottery for dangerous materials.  Glory Hallelujah, for that SGLI life insurance.  I, for my part, would have been satisfied with hitting the California Lottery.

So, now the big question became who was the owner of this broken pipeline?  Who had legal jurisdiction over the pipeline? Where to start looking for answers?

The rest of the staff went back to the office to find the answers to those questions.  BM3 Dave and I were tasked to stay behind with the command post and keep an eye on things.  BM3 Dave maneuvered the Winne so as to be upwind of the leak, and we sat in the comms area and twiddled our thumbs.  Yes, Dear Gentle Reader, your tax dollars were hard at work.  

About two hours later Lt Bunk came back and gave us the information that the California State Fire Marshall was the office that had legal authority over underground pipelines. Then he passed on, brace yourself Dear Gentle Reader, the piece de resistance, this was a pirate pipeline.  Yes, you read that correctly, a pirate pipeline.  A pipeline that had been constructed and buried without any permits, or other documentation.

Now, a person might think that when they pass by a construction project that all is in order.  All of the proper permits have been obtained, and permission given to carry out the project.  That is not necessarily true.  Some folks either don’t care, or figure that forgiveness is easier than permission.  Or, in other cases figure that if the problem is discovered they will be long down the road and unaccountable.  

Cleaning up the mess and repairing the pipe was the priority, and discovering who was legally responsible was going to have to wait.  Since there was no legally responsible party, the spill would be federalized.  In short, the taxpayer would be footing the bill for the cleanup.  Federalized cases are a serious administrative pain in the ass, as with anything government related, a federalized case meant documentation in the extreme.    

Lt Bunk did a good job in getting a specialized contractor on site within the next hour or so and soon BM3 Dave and I were busy documenting.  We listed all of the heavy equipment, an excavator, a dump truck, all the hand tools, all of the other miscellaneous equipment, the workers, their job titles, and of course we documented ourselves.  We did not forget to document the Winne as well.  We strove to be thorough in our documentation dammit.

By about 6:00 pm the solid had been removed, the pipeline exposed, repaired and most of the contaminated soil had been removed from the site.  Now, Dave and I were tasked to stay on site to ensure that the repair did not leak.  So, every thirty minutes one of us would walk over to the open trench and lower the probes of both of the monitors and get a reading and of course document the reading.  The levels of Benzene, Toluene and Xylene had dropped substantially and were going down over time.  

By 7:00 pm we were hungry and Winnie was not supplied with food or water.  We could not leave the area, and the rest of the MSD had gone home for the evening.  After a brief discussion we decided to order Dominos delivery. I used the government credit card and ordered a large pizza with pepperoni and mushrooms and two large Cokes.  It took some explaining on my part, but about 30 minutes later a Dominos delivery driver knocked on the back door of the Winnine with our order.  Yeah, Dominos will really deliver any anywhere. 

7:45 pm rolls around BM3 Dave and I tummies are full of pizza and caffeinated soft drinks.  Now, we are fighting off not falling asleep when suddenly there is another knock at the door.  I pulled myself out of the chair I was sitting in, walked over to the back door of the Winnie and opened it up.

BOOM!  

Reporters!  

I found myself looking at cameras, lights and microphones.  All pointed at me…fuck.  

There were reporters from some five news outlets, print, radio and of course TV. Fortunately, they were reasonably polite and asked their questions in turn.  I, for my part, gave only direct, brief answers.  “No, we did not know who owns the pipeline”, “Yes, the pipeline has been repaired”, “No, there is no further danger of contamination of dangerous chemicals".  “The contaminated soil and other contaminated materials are being transported to a hazardous waste facility. 

Then, it happened, “the stupid question”... 

Of course it was going to happen, it always happened…

The “the stupid question” was the sure sign of the lazy reporter, and I had come to absolutely loathe the lazy reporter.  My time at the MSO/MSD was my first direct experience with members of the press, and I and a number of interactions with the press.  I had grown to absolutely hate it when a member of the press asked, “the stupid question”.

Via the school of hard knocks, I had learned that when “The stupid question” situation came up it had to be handled fast, effectively, with a take-no-prisoners-attitude. Otherwise there would be more questions, and sure as God made little green apples most of them would be “stupid questions”.  

The stupid question asker was a young attractive female TV reporter from KPIX.  Up to this point she had been quietly taking notes. It was clear that she felt the need to validated and I was in no mood to be her therapist. 

“Why were we not informed?” she asked.  Her question was a follow up to another reporter's question about what state and federal agencies had been informed of the pipeline leak. I looked at the woman and gave her my most deadpan facial expression and response.  “Good stories don’t find reporters; good reporters find good stories”. 

The effect was immediate.  Camera lights went dark and cameras went off, microphones were pulled away, print reporters began to fold up their notebooks. In less than three minutes the 4th estate had packed up their gear and left.   

  The MSD Series, Part Thirteen…Reading is Fundamental