$h*t Run

I wanted to make up for my poor performance on the first two company “fun” runs.  When I was on my first deployment, I had competed in 5ks about once every few months, and even did a 10k whichwas a big deal to me. But all these gains were wiped away by just two weeks of drunken debauchery on Oahu with the Hawaii “souljas” of the 1/487th Hiki No Battalion.  Now with my new unit I had dropped out of two runs, and such a disgraceful act was exacerbated by SFC Koch’s speech to 2nd platoon introducing me as a patriot for going back to war so soon. (I was only home three weeks before redeploying on my second voluntary deployment.)

This Friday zero-dark-thirty excursion was a chance at redemption.  I especially wanted my platoon sergeant to see me in formation, and not thirty yards behind limp jogging and complaining of cramps.  I steeled himself to the task and resolved to stay with the pack regardless of the condition of lungs, muscles, and sinew. 

The company kicked up into double-time as always along the paved back road along the chain-link border of North Fort Lewis.  The CO’s go-to staff NCO dug into the usual cadences as the Cowboys drifted further from our temporary homes.  The further away they got the more disheartened became the unathletic, knowing that when we would again face the barracks we would only be halfway done.  It didn’t help that for the orange-vested gazelles that led the way, a run at that pace was nearly unbearably boring.  And the pace was fairly slow, so as to keep the unit looking as sharp and ordered as possible.  In fact, the pain taken to take twice as many steps as would be taken by a runner took a toll on many, including cramps, shin splints, and joint fatigue.  To prevent this, and to recover some pride, I volunteered to take the company guide-on and run it around the formation as we went.  I sprinted around like a wild banshee, screaming the unit’s praises as I went; my impetus for movement being 140 judging sets of eyes.  My cycle around the formation was publically encouraged by the XO and quietly mocked with grunts of “fag” and “cocksucker” from my new supportive peers. 

After bringing the guide-on back to its position of prominence in the front, I returned to my previous position in formation.  The faster pace shook out the lactic acid in my legs and helped make the first two miles bearable.  To my great fear, leg cramps were replaced with something far more sinister.  Time spent in Kuwait had led me to develop pretty serious IBS.  I never found out if it was caused by some nasty desert parasite or if it was psychological.  I didn’t even like to say the words Irritable Bowel Syndrome, as I believed such a thing put me in the same category as a 400-pound diabetic rolling a Hoveround with three Big Beef Meximelts in the front basket up the fake-grass mat-covered ramp to her double-wide. 

The rumbling in one’s lower gut that running, coffee, and cigarettes could all conjure (I had partaken in all three that morning) had fought its way to the forefront of my mind.  I was no longer conscious of any soreness in my legs whatsoever, or for that matter, any concept of legs at all.  All my concentration was on keeping that vile substance inside until proper elimination of the bowels could occur.  Looking ahead through the pre-dawn darkness, I could see a row of dozens of blue portajohns.  Salvation from unrecoverable embarrassment was nearly in my grasp.  My hopeful smile was turned back into an unlucky horseshoe as I neared enough to see the dim grey chainlink coming into view.  Even my temporarily-subdued gut parts grumbled in desperation when confronted with the fenced-off storage area.  I held out a slimmer of hope that an unlocked gate would present itself.  After all, wise and noble Mother Army would not place porta-potties in full view of the running route frequented daily by hundreds of soldiers.  Only sadists would place a neat and orderly row of spotless shitters just out of reach, I reasoned to myself.  Hope turned to abject despair as I ran beyond that section of fence without any access presenting itself. 

I realized that now I must ask permission to break ranks and scurry to the nearest tree line.  Under such circumstances asking any NCO would be nothing more than a sign of respect and a formality.  I jogged forward and asked the first NCO I saw for permission.  “Follow your chain,” came the curt response.  Somewhat surprised, I moved up the column to my squad leader, asking again to leave the ranks.  SSG Gomez was old as shit, actually getting drafted during the Vietnam War, and could in no way jog, talk, and think all at the same time without losing pace.  After many strides, Gomez managed a labored “ask Smoke,” before again returning all his energies on the run. 

Angered and perplexed, I continued up the column to the Big Bad Wolf, apparently the only NCO in 2nd platoon authorized to make these kinds of crucial decisions.

“Sergeant Koch, I need to shit!”

“Huh? Get back in formation troop!”  Koch barked, not knowing my name without my nametape present.

Embarrassed and cowed, I turned and jogged back to my place, doing my absolute best to keep my ass clenched, padlocking the waste inside.  Not thirty seconds could have passed before I again sprinted up to my platoon “daddy.”

“Sergeant Koch, I really need to shit!”

“You ain’t droppin’ outa this run,” Koch returned over his shoulder to the devilish laughs of my fellow soldiers.

I couldn’t believe that this man and this unit held the power to disregard bowel movements.  If I didn’t take a stand now the next thing to go would be my birthday.  I ran ahead of my platoon sergeant so I could look him in the eye.

“Sergeant, I’m either gonna shit in those woods over there or I’m gonna shit in formation!” Perry yelled to emphasize his need.  He took a course diagonally away from the unit, heading straight for the partial concealment of a small patch of trees. 

“You’d better be back in formation before it’s dismissed!” Koch responded, ensuring the last word on the matter.

I barely got my shorts clear of the impact zone before sweet release splattered all over the twigs and leaves of my impromptu concealment.  The unit had actually reached the turn-around point just after I left ranks.  This meant that I was now three miles away from where he had to go and the company was getting a longer and longer head start.  If I had been given permission to leave ranks from the first NCO I asked, I would have been able to take my time and do a proper job of it because the company would be running back to my position. 

Now that I was literally shitting against the clock, I tried to order the remainder of my shit to move faster as if channeling Koch, forcing the feces promptly across the transverse colon, down the descending colon, and out of my quivering and embarrassed rectum.  It is odd for a rectum to be embarrassed, but if ever a situation warranted such a comparison it was this one.  There is a seldom known saying that goes, “I was so embarrassed I wished I could crawl up my own rectum;” well, my asshole wished it had its own asshole for the embarrassment.  With the last little droplet trickling its way out I grabbed up the biggest ball of dead leaves I could, wiped, and repeated the process.  After what seemed like hours I was up and running, cutting across fields when it was feasible, pulling along the dead weight of heated expletives as I went.  A part of my psyche wanted to tell myself to take my time and walk back.

“What are they gonna do, send me to Iraq?” I whispered to myself between gritted teeth well worn from foul language.  “Those motherfuckers…those Ma Ther Fuckers!” I fumed as I kicked into a quick run for the last half mile.  I considered getting back to the unit on time to be the thing that would restore my honor and reputation amongst 2nd platoon.  I could hear the First Sergeant leading the now stationary company in stretches.  Kicking into a sprint, I whipped around behind the formation and into place, coming to the position of attention just in time to hear Top yell the sweetest phrase in the military: “fall out.” 

Moving back to the barracks for clean up and chow, as many soldiers as possible went by to let me know that the running convo with Koch was loud enough to be heard by every swinging dick in the company, all 142 of them.  I was beet red and hoped to slink away to the latrine without any more damage done to my pride.

“Where are your gloves,” Sergeant Koch asked, catching me walking past his office situated just inside the entrance to the barracks.  “You still got both of ‘em huh?  I figured you’d have to wipe yer ass with at least one!”

I reached down deep inside to find the restraint to crack a smile while Koch had a good laugh at my expense.  I proceeded at the double quick to the first open stall to finish my shit in a more civilized manner and to wipe out the crumbled leaves that obnoxiously pervaded the creases of my undercarriage. 

While sitting on the toilet, I summoned the god of karma to lay a curse on my platoon sergeant.  I closed my eyes and pictured Future Sergeant Major Koch in his best Dress Blues giving his men a farewell speech at his retirement ceremony.  Halfway through his speech the Karma Curse rips his asshole wide open like letting the air out of a balloon. I tuned out the loud noise of the many rambunctious soldiers in the latrine to focus on the fear and embarrassment on Future Koch’s face as the shit rolls down his pant leg contrasting beautifully with the red carpet of conference room #2 of the Holiday Inn. Becoming aghast and befuddled, Koch grabs his lapel and pulls it over his head before keeling forward and dying of embarrassment.

Bam, Bam, Bam.  “Let’s go to chow, man.  We gotta get back to mop the floors,” my bunkmate said as he pounded the stall door.

“Alright, I’m comin’,“ I returned as I flushed and opened the door.

“What’s with the goofy-assed smirk?  After the kind of morning you’ve had, what do you have to smile about?”

“Karma, man… Karma.”