I got up this morning feeling out of sorts. I was worried. Something was wrong, and I couldn't put my finger on what. I rushed through my morning ritual and left for work early.

Waiting at the bus stop, it was quiet. No one seemed to want to talk. The skies were gray and threatening. The birds that hunt insects in the flightline grass were absent.

At work we learned that source of our discontent: typhoon! A storm had formed very close by, and was moving rapidly in our direction. Normally we get at least 72 hours warning before a storm arrives; in this case we had less than eight before the eyewall would be overhead.

Which is a real problem, because it takes most of the day to stack all the aircraft inside hangars, and we didn't have that time. Base safety policy would have us back in barracks by 1000, but that wasn't happening, as we didn't even start moving aircraft until 0730.

We got it done, and got back to barracks, as the cloud bands swirled overhead and the wind gusted in unpredicable directions. Good times! But annoyingly, this storm is moving so fast it'll clear out overnight, so we're going to be showing up to work tomorrow, which is Saturday. Enthusiasm is limited over that.

In the extended entry, a weathermap of the coming storm.

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We've got a Brigadier General visiting this afternoon, and he'll be flying copilot on one of our helicopters. I looked up his biography to check the spelling of his name, and it turns out he's a graduate of Drew University, where my cousin Russ works. Small world, eh?

UPDATE: Turns out the guy was annoying. Ah well.

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There's a PFT next Monday. That's the Physical Fitness Test for those insufficiently familiar with USMC TLA jargon. One of my fellow corporals is doing it for score, so I'm going to run too, but my score won't be entered.

Some motivation seemed appropriate, so we're placing a side bet. Whoever has the faster run time buys the slower runner breakfast.

"Wait," you cry out. "The winner buys? What's up with that?"

Well, the loser has to eat it. And the breakfast is rice with nattō. Curdled soybeans. They look like droppings for a deer with a digestive disorder. I'm told that they smell a bit like that, too. It's a regional Japanese specialty, and Okinawa is not an area where it's popular. But I found some in a grocery store not long ago.

I have no desire to eat any nattō, so I'll be running strong!

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Any competent bachelor can whip up a pre-packaged meal from the store. You know, measure so much water, microwave, et cetera. But I contend it takes actual skill to whip up a pre-packaged meal when (a) you don't read the script that the directions are written with, and (b) you don't know what the meal is supposed to be when it's ready.

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Well, looks like the problem is solved. The Sergeant Major said "Don't bother writing up a charge sheet- just get me some names." We had to do quite a bit of leaning on the victim, but he talked eventually. The perpetrator was a friend of the senior Flightline sergeant, and belonged to another unit. The friendship explains why the Flightliner was trying so hard to bottle this up. Being in a different command means that things get more complicated, but our Sergeant Major is going to charge the guy. So my part is done. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

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All right, made some progress. There was no entry regarding the incident in the barracks Duty NCO Logbook, so that person chose to turn a blind eye. Noted.

I found out who the victim was, and snatched him up. He didn't want to talk, but a scary NCO yelling at him loosened his lips. From him and another witness, I discovered the perpetrator, whose identity made me even more wrathful, as it was one of my fellow Corporals. I'd been angry when I assumed it was just Lances messing with the new guy. To discover that it was someone specifially charged with enforcing the discipline and standards of the Corps, made me even less pleased.

So I went to the senior Flightline NCOs in the barracks, and got told to get bent. Specifically, "Stay in your shop and mind your own business." That's a direct quote. Naturally, they wanted to protect their fellow NCO. So I went right over their heads. Called the SDO (squadron duty officer, on Saturday it was a Staff Sergeant) and also left a message for the SNCOIC for Flighline. He's a former drill instructor and not likely to ignore this. The SNCOIC just took over the shop on Friday, which is good for me, as the old guy is about to retire and is a believer that the Corps has been going downhill ever since they let women in. That old guy would have been all about hushing things up, but the new one should take the matter seriously.

Once the SDO showed up, the Flightline NCOs changed their tune with me, but not to my satisfaction. It went from "There's no problem here" to "Nothing actually happened." I pointed out that I'd talked to the victim and he'd told the story, and then they switched to "This is a problem that should be handled unofficially at the NCO level, with extra duty and other unofficial punishment." The SDO seemed to be buying off on that, but I was not, as it was obvious they were lying. And I want paperwork on this guy. I want him burned bad. He's a disgrace as an NCO.

Incidentally, the Flightliners arguments as to why this wasn't a problem were along two lines. (1) It was concensual- the guy was drunk and didn't resist, and in fact was laughing about it afterwards. (2) Stuff that happens while you're drunk doesn't count.

As to (1), I pointed out that concenting to a crime does not make it somehow not a crime. If you ask me to hit me in the face, and you do, it is not somehow no longer assault. Regarding (2), this argument was so specious I was rendered momentarily unable to respond, as my brain bumped over it like a wheel over a pothole. From day two of boot camp, we get "You're a Marine twenty-four hours a day seven days a week three hundred and sixty-five days a year for the rest of your life" drilled into us. To suggest that crimes perpetrated in a state of drunkeness are somehow not crimes, that the UCMJ stops applying when inebriated, left me breathless. That's the sort of thinking that leads to beating your wife.

I think part of the reason I'm taking this all so seriously is that right now one of my Marines is facing the end of his career for a property crime that did a few hundred dollars of damage. And there's this NCO that (in my understanding, and under my interpretation of the UCMJ) committed indecent assault, assault, maltreatment of a junior, violation of a direct order, and conduct predjudicial to good order and discipline. And they want to hush it all up. Hell no. When the SDO started taking the Flighliners side, I said "Fine, I've got somewhere I wanted to be an hour ago, go ahead and take care of it." But come Monday morning, I'll be talking to the Flightline SNCOIC. And if he doesn't give me satisfaction, you'll see my bootprints in that gunny's high as I go over his head to the Sergeant Major.

So my investiation is essentially complete, and now we're in the realm of politics. And I don't think any of those Flightline meatheads can beat me on that field of battle.

Oh yeah, saved round, to quote someone I was talking to years ago- "Why is it that whenever Marines do something really stupid, they take video?" Because I heard that someone filmed the goings-on. I haven't talked to him yet, because if he knows I know, it'll get deleted. I hope to keep that footage in reserve.

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I was just leaving to go to my 1 PM Exalted Role-playing game. Out in the hall of the barracks, I could not help but notice a stream of urine in the floor.

This, shall we say, made me curious. While a barracks has some similarities to a college dorm, we generally enforce a higher standard of cleanliness about the place. Cleanliness is next to good order and discipline, you see.

So I ask a contact of mine, and I discover that the Flightline new guy that just checked on Friday was dragged through the halls and urinated upon.

Everyone's got a reputation in the unit. Mine is as a smart guy, friendly, never yells, disapproves of "bonding rituals". Well, there's bonding rituals, and then there's hazing. On Thursday, one day before this incident, we had all-hands mandatory training, on Marine Corps Order 1700.28. For those that don't make a habit of memorizing Marine Corps standing orders, that's the one that forbids... hazing. Not that it's necessary, because there are a half-dozen articles of the UCMJ that cover the subject, but the Commandant of the Marine Corps wrote a nice short four-page order refreshing everyone's memory.

And thirty-six hours after we listened to that order, they drag a guy through the hall and piss on him.

I am so angry I'm writing this blog post to calm down. When I hit post, I'm going to go to that guy's room, throw out his roommates, and demand some names. If I can't get names from him, I'll tell him I'll charge him with Article 81, Conspiracy- and I'll do it, too.

After I talk to the victim, I'm going to get the senior Flightline NCO in the barracks to have his people clean up the hallways, and I'll call the Flightline SNCOIC. And if he won't give me satisfaction, I'll get the Sergeant Major. I am damned well fed up with this nonsense. I want some people burned.

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Got home from work today, took a nap. On the floor. I only have one room, so it's not like the bed was far away. Soo tired...

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Most of the Marines that ask me about my camera are shocked at how expensive it is- about $1000, and then hundreds more for lenses. The first one I talked to that did not seem surprised was my Gunny.

I found out why recently. I knew he was a serious bicyclist. Serious enough that he didn't let his bikes get shipped over here by the regular movers; he had a special service send them over. The arrived about two weeks ago, and he's started riding in to work every so often. He's been riding his mountain bike vice his street bike, because the extra weight makes for better training. Extra weight? I picked up his bike, and it weight seriously less than half of what my old mountain bike does, and it has front and rear suspension and disc brakes.

After looking it over, we had to give Gunny some grief about it. "Gunny, how did you get stuck with such a cheap bike! Look, there's no kickstand! And the pedals are so tiny, it's like they could only be used with a special shoe. What a bum deal!"

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