Category: The Green Machine
For more than a century, infantry units have fought under an unforgiving reality: When you’re humping a ruck through non-cooperative terrain and you run face-first into an entrenched bunker, fortified machine-gun nest or enemy light armor, your options for immediate heavy fire support are painfully thin.
You can’t drag a 70-ton M1 Abrams through every swamp or up every mountain, and waiting on close air support or artillery when rounds are actively snapping over your head is a luxury combat rarely affords. The Army needed a vehicle that could cast a wider net without encountering the logistical hurdles of other direct-fire weapon systems. Enter the M10 Booker.
If you talk to Army leadership or defense acquisition officials, they will aggressively correct you if you call it a “light tank,” insisting on the clunky moniker of “Mobile Protected Firepower” (MPF).
Unfortunately for the brass, my capacity for bureaucratic red tape is pretty much non-existent, so let’s just call a spade a spade: it has tracks, a turret, heavy armor plating, and a 105mm cannon.
That sounds like a light tank to me. Whatever label the Pentagon wants to slap on the data plate doesn’t really matter to the Jimmys and Joes; it is a dedicated combat vehicle built to roll into Hell alongside the infantry and smash whatever is in their way.
Don’t get it twisted: the Booker is not designed to replace the Abrams in a kinetic slugfest against enemy heavy armored formations. Instead, it aims to solve a glaring operational vulnerability that has plagued American forces for generations.
It was designed to take the cutting-edge fire-control systems, lethal optics, and four-man crew philosophy of our frontline armor and pack it into an agile, sub-40-ton platform that can deploy rapidly to any theater on the globe.
Underneath its composite armor lies a modern, aggressive solution to an old-school problem, thus ensuring that when our forces cross the line of departure into the contested battlefields of tomorrow, they bring the undisputed master of direct-fire support with them. Unfortunately for the Pentagon, none of that would be sufficient to save this project from being shelved for the foreseeable future.
Ghosts of Armor Past: Humble Beginnings
To understand how the M10 Booker ended up on the chopping block, you have to look at the long, troubled lineage of American light armor that paved the way for its demise, starting with the M551 Sheridan.
Born during the Cold War and baptized in the jungles of Vietnam, the Sheridan was the Army’s attempt to give airborne and light units an air-droppable, aluminum-hulled scout vehicle packing the direct-fire punch of a 152mm gun/launcher. On paper, it was a dream; on the battlefield, it was a nightmare.
Unfortunately for the crewmen inside, the paper-thin armor made it a death trap against basic rocket-propelled grenades and landmines, while the finicky, caseless-ammunition gun system choked and sputtered in humid, combat-stressed environments.
When the Sheridan was retired without a direct replacement in the late 1990s, it left a massive, bleeding capability gap in the airborne and light infantry communities. The Pentagon would then spend the next 30 years desperately trying, and repeatedly failing, to fill that gap.
Once the Sheridan was relegated to the history books, the Army attempted a modern band-aid during the Global War on Terror with the Stryker Mobile Gun System (MGS). Slapping a low-profile 105mm tank cannon onto an 8×8 wheeled chassis seemed like the ideal compromise to give Stryker brigades rapid direct-fire capability. In reality, the vehicle was an absolute mechanical disaster.
The violent recoil of the 105mm blast constantly battered the wheeled platform’s suspension and drivetrain, and the notoriously complex autoloader choked on sand, dust and carbon at the worst possible moments. On top of that, firing the gun over the side can potentially tip the platform over on uneven terrain.
Maintaining the Stryker MGS became an unsustainable logistical nightmare for unit mechanics, and crew survivability against modern threats was practically non-existent. By the time the Army officially pulled the plug on the MGS in 2021, the exact same tactical void that plagued the post-Sheridan era was wide open once again.
Determined not to repeat the fragile mistakes of the Sheridan or the wheeled compromises of the Stryker MGS, the Army launched the Mobile Protected Firepower (MPF) program. The goal seemed simple enough: build a rugged, tracked, direct-fire combat vehicle that could accompany light infantry into austere environments, survive real battlefield threats, and fit cleanly onto Air Force transport planes.
General Dynamics Land Systems secured the contract with a heavily modified Austrian-Spanish ASCOD chassis, eventually naming the platform the “M10 Booker” to honor WWII Medal of Honor recipient Pvt. Robert D. Booker and OIF Distinguished Service Cross recipient Staff Sgt. Stevon Booker.
Then, almost immediately, the classic curse of military acquisition set in. Requirements bloomed, composite armor was demanded, advanced active protection systems were needed, and heavier digital architectures were made a priority.
More requirements means more equipment, and more equipment means more weight. Serious weight. What started as an agile, expeditionary concept rapidly ballooned into a 42-ton heavyweight, planting the early seeds for the program’s eventual demise.
By the time the Booker was gearing up for fielding, the operational landscape had fundamentally changed underneath its tracks. The war in Ukraine and the explosion of cheap, lethal drone warfare forced the Pentagon to take a hard look at what it was actually buying. Spending millions of dollars on a 40+-ton manned vehicle that could no longer be dropped from a C-130 and barely fit into established strategic airlift was a tough pill to swallow.
On top of that, restrictive contractor maintenance agreements meant unit-level mechanics were pretty much locked out of fixing their own machines in the field. When Army leadership took an honest look at the shifting demands of Large Scale Combat Operations (LSCO), the math simply did not add up anymore. Rather than dumping billions into a platform that had strayed far from its original expeditionary purpose, the Army pulled the plug, choosing to pivot toward lighter, uncrewed, and truly mobile future technologies.
Breaking Down the Booker: Armament and Optics
The primary feather in the Booker’s cap was its ability to deliver heavy, organic direct-fire capability directly to light units, and on paper, it packed plenty of heat. Its primary weapon was the 105mm M35 rifled cannon. While it lacked the sheer kinetic energy of the Abrams’ 120mm smoothbore, it was plenty sufficient for its intended purpose.
It was never designed to duel frontline enemy main battle tanks head-on. The 105mm was optimized to crack open concrete bunkers, eliminate fortified anti-tank missile positions, and shred light armored vehicles like Russian BMPs or Chinese infantry fighting vehicles.
The real strength of the Booker’s lethality came down to its digital guts. The Army directly ported over the advanced Fire Control System architecture from the M1A2 SEPv3 Abrams. They then paired the cannon with high-definition, third-generation Forward Looking Infrared (FLIR) optics and the Safran PASEO Commander’s Independent Tactical Viewer (CITV).
This gave the four-man crew true hunter-killer capability, allowing the tank commander to acquire the next target while the gunner eliminated the current one.
Secondary armament mirrored standard American armor doctrine: an M240 7.62mm machine gun mounted coaxially next to the main gun, and Ol’ Reliable: the classic M2 .50 caliber heavy machine gun operated at the commander’s hatch.
Surviving the Modern Battlespace
To keep the vehicle within a manageable weight class, General Dynamics built the Booker around a welded-steel hull augmented with modular composite armor packages. The baseline protection was rated to defeat heavy machine gun fire, while the frontal armor could withstand hits from modern autocannons and artillery fragmentation.
Internally, it borrowed proven safety features from the heavy armor community, including isolated ammunition stowage with blowout panels and automated fire suppression systems to protect the crew from catastrophic secondary explosions.
Unfortunately, survivability is where the fundamental contradiction that is the M10 Booker began to unravel. It lacked the dense depleted uranium composite armor of the Abrams, which means it’s still extremely vulnerable to modern anti-tank guided missiles and top-attack loitering munitions.
The Army attempted to solve this drawback by designing it to carry modular active protection systems, but every bolt-on countermeasure and extra steel plate added more and more weight. Soon, the vehicle was caught in a trap: it had become too heavily armored to be a nimble, air-droppable asset, but remained too lightly protected to survive on a modern battlefield saturated with suicide drones and heavy kinetic munitions.
Locomotion and Strategic Anchors
Propelling a 40-ton vehicle requires a massive amount of reliable power, and for the Booker, the Army opted for a front-mounted MTU 800-horsepower diesel engine mated to an Allison automatic transmission and a modern hydropneumatic suspension.
Putting the engine block in the front served a dual purpose: it acted as an extra physical shield for the crew in the turret and delivered significantly better fuel economy than the thirsty AGT1500 gas turbine in the Abrams. Across rough dirt and semi-restricted terrain, the Booker was remarkably agile, hitting speeds around 40 to 45 mph without breaking a sweat.
The problem wasn’t tactical mobility in the dirt; it was strategic mobility in the air. The original light armor dream was an asset you could roll out the back of a C-130 or air-drop directly onto an objective. At over 80,000 pounds, the Booker completely killed that dream. While the Air Force could technically cram two Bookers inside a massive C-17 Globemaster III, moving an entire battalion required an absurd amount of dedicated heavy strategic airlift. For an expeditionary force that prides itself on packing light and moving fast, the Booker ended up being a 40-ton anchor attached to their logistics chain.
The Human Element: Man vs Machine
When designing modern light combat vehicles, almost every foreign power opted for an automated loading system. Russia and China went all in on autoloaders to keep their vehicles small, light, and manned by just three crewmen. General Dynamics and the U.S. Army took the opposite approach, sticking firmly to the traditional four-man layout: Tank Commander, Gunner, Loader and Driver.
Keeping a human loader in the turret was one of the smartest theoretical calls on the platform. Beyond slamming 105mm rounds into the breech in seconds without complex mechanical linkages failing in dusty environments, that fourth crew member is pure strategic gold in the field.
Operating an armored vehicle is brutal, exhausting manual labor. When a tank throws track in deep mud, blows a hydraulic line, or needs 36 straight hours of continuous perimeter security pulled, a three-man crew burns out rapidly. Having an extra set of hands, eyes, and ears would give Booker crews the operational endurance that foreign platforms simply cannot match.
The Global Matchup: Light Armor on the World Stage
When looking at where the Booker sits on the global chessboard, the debate immediately runs into a massive wall of doctrinal confusion. The media and casual defense observers constantly tried to pit the Booker against heavy frontline main battle tanks like Russia’s T-90 or China’s Type 99.
Frankly, that comparison completely misses the point. Asking a 40-ton vehicle with a 105mm gun to trade blows with a 125mm heavy tank in an open field is a suicide mission. The Booker was built as an assault gun meant to support dismounted infantry and crush light armor, not duel heavy armor head-on.
The Eastern Rival: China’s Type 15 (VT-5)
One of the most honest Booker comparisons you can make is with China’s Type 15 light tank. Purpose-built for the brutal, oxygen-deprived elevations of the Tibetan Plateau and amphibious island-hopping campaigns, the Type 15 represents the exact opposite design philosophy of the Booker.
The Chinese opted for an aggressive, low-profile 36-ton vehicle powered by a 1,000-horsepower diesel engine, an autoloader, and a three-man crew. By cutting out the fourth crew member and relying on automated loading mechanisms, the Type 15 achieved an exceptional power-to-weight ratio tailored for high-altitude mountainous warfare where heavy armor literally cannot breathe.
However, that smaller silhouette comes with steep trade-offs. The automated ammunition carousel creates the exact same vulnerability seen in Russian armor, where a single penetrating hit detonates the onboard ammo and gives the crew an all-expenses-paid trip to the Turret Toss Olympics. Furthermore, the lack of a fourth crew member makes field maintenance and long-duration operations in harsh environments an absolute nightmare for Chinese crews.
Doctrinal Identity Crisis
The real problem for the M10 Booker wasn’t how it stacked up against the Type 15 on a spec sheet, it was that the U.S. Army never fully figured out what it actually wanted the vehicle to be.
The Chinese built the Type 15 for specific, non-negotiable terrain where an Abrams or Type 99 simply cannot physically drive due to weight and altitude restrictions. The U.S. Army, on the other hand, tried to turn the Booker into a do-it-all hybrid. They wanted it light enough for airborne and light infantry divisions, but armored enough to survive heavy fire.
The idea was to make it cheap and simple to maintain, while also loading it with proprietary contractor systems. In trying to build a vehicle that could satisfy every branch of combat arms at once, the military produced a compromised machine that ended up pleasing almost no one.
Ground Truth and the Final Verdict
Stepping into the turret of an M10 Booker is an experience full of contradictions. For any crewman who has spent years inside the cramped, deafening interior of an M1 Abrams, the Booker feels quite modern. The shared digital interfaces, crystal-clear FLIR thermal monitors, and familiar fire control hand grips make getting on target almost effortless. It handles like a dream in the mud, carving through tight turns and navigating wooded terrain where a main battle tank would instantly get bogged down
The reality inside the hatch is where the anxiety sets in. When you are sitting behind the controls of an Abrams, you know you are encased in depleted uranium composite armor designed to take a beating from the heaviest munitions on the planet and keep rolling. In the Booker, you are painfully aware of the thin steel and composite skin separating you from the outside world.
When you operate in close coordination with light infantry, you are naturally drawn into dense urban streets, choke points and tree lines. In modern warfare, those environments are absolute slaughterhouses, swarming with RPGs and cheap, deadly suicide drones. Operating a vehicle that looks and behaves like a tank, but cannot take a hit like a tank, demands a brand of hyper-vigilance that is mentally exhausting.
At the end of the day, the death of the M10 Booker is not the story of a catastrophic engineering failure. It is the classic story of development-creep running headfirst into the brutal reality of an evolving battlefield. It was a platform conceived during an era of counterinsurgency, designed to bridge a gap left behind by the Sheridan and the Stryker MGS, but finalized just in time to face a drone-saturated, near-peer operational environment that rendered its core concept obsolete.
You cannot fix an expeditionary mobility problem with a 40-ton vehicle, and you cannot survive modern multi-domain warfare with half-measures in armor. The Army’s decision to cancel the program before pouring tens of billions more into full-rate production may sting in the short term, but it stops the cycle of throwing good money after a flawed concept. The infantry’s dream of an organic, heavy direct-fire sledgehammer remains unfulfilled, but the lessons bought and paid for by the Booker will shape whatever machine takes its place on the firing line next.
“Servicemen” in action near Anzio. The 2.36” M1A1 Bazooka gave the FSSF some anti-tank capability and was also frequently used against bunkers and other hardened positions.
NARA photograph.
Throughout 1941 and 1942, the British military sought to harass and disrupt German operations in occupied Western Europe by any means possible. British commandos raided bases on Hitler’s Atlantic Wall, primarily on the French coast, but also in Norway. In March 1942, “Project Plough” was proposed to Lord Louis Mountbatten, the British chief of combined operations. Project Plough’s target was Norway, and the mission was to land a significant commando force, specially trained and equipped for winter and mountain warfare, to create a base within Norwegian territory that would harass the Germans in Norway while preparing a route to invade Germany from the north.
“Plough” was a highly ambitious plan, to say the least, and it demanded far more resources than the British commando organization could provide. Instead, the concept was offered to the Americans and was accepted by Gen. George Marshall, chief of staff of the U.S. Army. By May 1942, the plans for “Plough” had been reviewed by Maj. Robert T. Frederick, an operations officer on the U.S. general staff. Frederick assessed the Project Plough as being unfeasible, with unachievable goals and genuine potential for complete disaster. Even so, Gen. Marshall and Gen. Dwight Eisenhower did not want to back down from the challenge—and the potential to open a coveted second front against Germany.
A Joint Canadian American Force
After a brief period with Lt. Col. Johnson at the helm of the project, Lord Mountbatten suggested that, despite his poor assessment of the plan, Maj. Frederick take over. 
Eisenhower approved, promoted Frederick to colonel, and instructed him to create a fighting force to make it work. On July 9, 1942, the First Special Service Force (FSSF) was activated as a top secret, joint Canadian-U.S. force that answered directly to the joint chiefs of staff.
A joint Canadian American strike force: Cleaning an M1 rifle in the FSSF’s Helena barracks. Author’s photo collection.
The American contingent was drawn from officer cadets at Fort Benning and Fort Belvoir, along with men recruited from northern and western areas with experience as hunters, guides, lumberjacks and other hardy outdoorsmen. Canadian volunteers were mostly diverted from a proposed Canadian parachute battalion. The Canadians remained in their own army (and were paid by the Canadian government), but their uniforms, equipment and supplies were provided by the U.S. Army. Training began almost immediately at Fort William Henry Harrison near Helena, Mont.
The Canadians provided combat experience including first-hand knowledge of German small arms. Here a Canadian member of the FSSF demonstrates the German MG34. Author’s photo collection.
In the following months, the FSSF members were in for intense training in the rugged mountains of Montana. A high percentage of injuries were incurred in their early parachute training operations, and the coupling of Canadian and American troops created unique challenges for the force leaders. Ski and snowshoe training was provided by Norwegian instructors. Eventually, the unit began to gel, and as the men became a cohesive fighting force, they referred to each other as “Forcemen.”
After returning from Kiska: A FSSF display including a captured Japanese Arisaka rifle, along with a German MG34 LMG and Mauser Karabiner 98k rifle, along with a Canadian Lee-Enfield No. 4 Mk I (not used by the Forcemen). Author’s photo collection.
On Aug. 15, 1943, the FSSF was part of the invading force that landed on Kiska in the Aleutian Island chain. But there was no baptism of fire for the Devil’s Brigade on Kiska—the Japanese had abandoned their positions there. By mid-September, the Forcemen had returned to the U.S. assembling at Fort Ethan Allen in Vermont. They were soon to discover that “Project Plough,” and any notion of attacking Germany or occupied Europe through Norway, had been scrapped. The men were trained and ready, and now they were literally looking for a fight. They found it on the Italian front. On Nov. 19, 1943, the FSSF went into the line in the mountains near Naples.
The Thompson SMG provided the short-range firepower for the 1SSF, shown in a Forcemen’s display along with a German MP40, an early Sten Mk II, and a Mauser Karabiner 98k rifle. Author’s photo collection.
Making A Name For Themselves
Beginning with their daring, mountain-climbing attack on German defenses atop Monte la Difensa, and through several other mountain actions, the FSSF earned a reputation for bravery and ferocity. In February 1944, after the Forcemen began their aggressive raids against German positions surrounding the Anzio beachhead, the unit gained the nickname “The Black Devils.”
Whether this originated from their German opponents or was something dreamed up by Col. Frederick and his staff to add to their reputation remains a mystery. Either way, the FSSF ultimately earned the moniker and paid for it in blood—with an overall attrition rate of more than 600 percent. In their relatively short combat career, the 1,800 men of the FSSF created more than 12,000 German casualties, while taking almost 7,000 prisoners.
The Germans consistently over-estimated the size of the force, assuming that it was a division-size formation. A captured German communication describing the FSSF was pointed: “They are treacherous, unmerciful and clever. You cannot afford to relax.” Meanwhile, the Forcemen were noted for leaving a combat “calling card,” a sticker written in German that loosely translated to “The worst is yet to come.” The FSSF was as prophetic as they were deadly.
Mountain fighting: The FSSF carried its “Johnny Guns” wherever it went, including their harrowing mountain warfare experiences in Italy. This Forceman with his M1941 Johnson LMG is seen near Radicosa, Italy in January 1944. NARA photograph.
Arming The Forcemen
The FSSF was always envisioned as a strike force, a cross between commandos, paratroopers and light infantry. Consequently, their arms needed to be light enough to be easily carried into any combat environment while delivering the greatest amount of hard-hitting firepower.
The FSSF used the .30-cal. Browning M1919A4 as its medium machine gun. Author’s photo collection.
The FSSF was equipped with U.S. gear, and despite the Canadian presence in the force, American rifles, submachine gun, and light machine guns were chosen as armament. Colonel Frederick had a direct pipeline to U.S. Army supply, and this gave FSSF priority in their requests. They received the semi-automatic M1 Garand rifle at a time when many American units still carried the bolt-action M1903 Springfield, and their British counterparts carried the bolt-action SMLE.
The Forcemen also received the .45-cal. Thompson SMG in quantity—at a time when British commandos were transitioning to the lighter 9 mm Sten gun. The Browning Automatic Rifle rounded out the initial mix of firearms for the force. The Garand, the Thompson and the BAR were all excellent firearms, offering an excellent combination of firepower, range, and accuracy. Unfortunately, they were all rather heavy for a commando force that was expecting to be committed to battle by air.
The heaviest gun in FSSF firearms arsenal was the Browning .30-cal. M1919A4 machine gun—the gun weighing in at about 31 lbs., with its M2 tripod weighing 14 lbs. The M1919A4 was a capable machine gun (with a steady cyclic rate of 600 rpm), but its overall weight minimized its use in FSSF operations, particularly in mountain fighting in Italy.
A moment to remember the fallen: FSSF men pause to honor a friend before they move on to the next battle. Anzio area, 1944. NARA photograph.
To help sustain the Force behind enemy lines, FSSF members were trained on the use and maintenance of German firearms, most notably the Mauser 98k rifle (8 mm Mauser), the MP 40 submachine gun (9 mm Luger), and the MG34 GPMG (8 mm Mauser).
The “Johnny Gun”
The FSSF was open to a wide range of infantry arms to suit their needs, and this led them to test the Johnson M1941 LMG during early 1943. Impressed with its unique design, the FSSF requested 125 of the guns. American Rifleman Field Editor Bruce Canfield notes that these were procured by the U.S. Army from the Netherlands Purchasing Commission and not via a trade with the United States Marine Corps (the only other U.S. military user of the M1941 LMG).
The FSSF used the .30-cal. Johnson M1941 LMG (called the “Johnny Gun” by Forcemen) during their time in Italy. Note the bipod and 20-round magazine held by the man at the right. Anzio area, early 1944. Author’s photo collection.
The FSSF encountered some early problems with their “Johnny Guns” (issues with extractors, bolt handles and magazine springs)—and these concerns were chalked up to limited training and inexperience with the type. As time went on, the FSSF’s maintenance record with the Johnson LMG improved consistently, and the M1941 would perform well in combat in Italy. Johnson LMGs offered an easily replaceable barrel, and a good supply of spare barrels helped keep the rare Johnny Guns in service through the Anzio breakout.
Melvin Johnson demonstrating the Johnson LMG during the summer of 1940. The firearm could be loaded by stripper clips at the ejection port, or single rounds could be loaded into the breech. Author’s photo collection.
Overall reactions from the FSSF to the Johnson LMG showed the men preferred its light and flexible firepower in offensive operations—particularly valuable for aggressive light infantry operating in the rugged Italian terrain. The Johnson LMG’s firepower-to-weight ratio was impressive: it weighed little more than 12 lbs., not much more than a loaded M1 rifle, and about the same as a Thompson submachine gun (the M1A1 Thompson weighed 10 lbs., unloaded). Firing at up to 600 rpm, the Johnny Gun’s firepower often turned the tide in favor of the Devil’s Brigade at critical moments in combat.
A rare image of the Johnson LMG in action with the FSSF. Anzio area, 1944. NARA photograph.
In his book “The First Special Service Force: A War History of the North Americans” (Infantry Journal Press, 1947), Lt. Col.l Robert Burhans commented on the Johnson LMG’s importance to the Forcemen: “The Johnson was, pound for pound, the most valuable weapon the FSSF possessed.”
Back from raid: Men of the FSSF examine a captured MG15 light machine gun. Note the 75-round “saddle drum” magazine in the foreground. Anzio area, 1944. NARA photograph.
Hand-to-Hand
Reflecting the true commando spirit, the Forcemen were skilled in hand-to-hand combat. To this end, the FSSF developed its own fighting knife: The Fighting Commando Knife, Type V-42. Colonel Frederick and several other Force officers contributed to the design of the V-42, which was based on the British Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife. The V-42 stiletto is a frightening bit of gear, particularly in the hands of trained commando—its double-edged, carbon-steel blade could penetrate a German helmet with a single thrust. A pointed steel “skull crusher” was added to the pommel to create one of the most intimidating fighting knives of all time.
FSSF men in training near Helena, Mont. Note the use of the wooden dummy M1 rifle. NARA photograph.
A Quiet Ending
After participating in the invasion of Southern France during August 1944, the FSSF took up defensive positions on the border of France and Italy. The end of the war came quietly for the First Special Service Force. On Dec. 5, 1944, the FSSF was disbanded in Villeneuve-Loubet. What began as an unfeasible plan to open a second front in frozen Norway, ultimately created one of the finest special forces in the proud history of two armies—American and Canadian.
All professional soldiers are amateur philosophers. I was once in the desert stretched out across a bunch of lumpy rocks alongside my infantry counterpart listening to his company of exhausted grunts snoring in unison. We had been on the move for a long while already, and had a couple of hours of cherished downtime before we started all over again.
The aircraft I flew then cost more than $100 million in today’s dollars. My buddy’s NODs, weapon, and sundry gear were certainly not cheap. Uncle Sam had invested untold treasure teaching us both how to do our respective jobs.
As we were discussing in soft tones the staggering amount of money spent to get the two of us to that place at that time doing these things, my friend observed, “But they sure didn’t squander much of that on accommodations, hooah?”
Corporate misery is the currency of the US Army. Collective hardship is the tool that the Big Green Machine uses to transform disparate individuals into cohesive tribes. They are lyrically good at that. They can’t technically hit you anymore, but they can sure make you go long periods without food or sleep. Sleep deprivation is a combat analog during peacetime training.
A Particularly Remarkable Repast…
Another time I went around four days without sleep, and I was starting to hallucinate. I could see smells and hear colors. It’s tough to describe. In this sordid state we finally called an admin halt for a little chow. We dropped our rucksacks and plopped down in small clots to trade out MREs.
MRE stands for Meal, Refused-by-Ethiopians. No, it doesn’t. MRE stands for Meal, Ready-to-Eat. They’re actually quite good nowadays. However, it is a soldier’s holy prerogative to gripe about his comestibles. Bartering among your buddies for the tastiest bits was high art. In our sleep-deprived state, these proceedings soon took on a fairly comedic character.
One dude I did not know well staggered up and asked if he could join us. We scooted around to make room as he dropped his heavy rucksack hastily to the ground. Before he sat down he began to gyrate in a weird, unnatural fashion. Just as he began making a spectacle of himself, he gave his right arm a little flick and a foot-long dead lizard shot out of his sleeve. The demised reptile landed unceremoniously atop my neighbor’s Diced Beef with Gravy. The recipient of the dead lizard found this experience justifiably discomfiting.
For a moment everything just stopped. The soldier upon whose MRE the lizard had been deposited then leapt up as though electrocuted. I did not fully comprehend the details myself, but he was clearly about to murder the lizard-throwing guy. Before the aggrieved party could act out his homicidal urges, however, the new man began to grunt maniacally and tear his own clothes off.
A couple of buddies and I restrained them both. Appreciating the half-naked man’s sincere agitation, the guy whose lunch had been irretrievably spoiled now powered down long enough to let things play out. The ghastly details were undeniably fascinating.
A Misunderstanding Most Reasonable…
Some 12 hours or so before, this guy’s patrol had taken a brief halt in the woods. It was pitch dark. This poor unfortunate hunkered down at the base of a tree and leaned forward to take the weight of his rucksack briefly off of his shoulders. Just as his patrol leader called for them to move again, he felt what he assumed to be a big stick fall out of the tree and slide down the neck of his BDU shirt. There was no time to tend to it, so he just wiggled around, squeezing his ruck straps against it until the thing found a handy neutral spot in his armpit. We were all so filthy that he promptly forgot it was there.
Half a day later, he had been about to sit down to eat when he remembered the stick again. Exhausted and unwilling to go to the trouble of taking his shirt off, he had just wriggled until he maneuvered the offending object into his sleeve. The next thing he knew, the big stiff lizard came flying out of his clothes and landed in my buddy’s lunch. It resembled a rigid brown scaly banana. Ever the responsible citizen, I grabbed the dead lizard and threw it into the woods.
We all resumed our meal and had a good laugh about it. Everybody except the guy with the big dead lizard in his shirt. He did not think it funny at all. In fact, he remained noticeably twitchy for some time afterwards.
Ruminations
I learned a lot of stuff in the Army. I came to appreciate the value of teamwork and sacrifice. I enjoyed the fellowship of warriors and the privilege of becoming part of something bigger than myself. More than anything, however, my time in uniform put my problems in perspective.
Nowadays, I get to sleep at home and I eat what I want. I take a shower every single day, whether I need it or not. And I never, ever worry that I might unexpectedly discover a footlong dead lizard in my clothes.
