In addition to finding that I am unable to tell time properly here in the Stan, I have also discovered that the Army speaks in a foreign tongue. Even though I have years of post graduate education, bear a degree with the work doctor on it (although my attempts to get people to call me Dr. K— have so far been unsuccessful, Juris-istic as I may be) I still have difficulty comprehending people in ordinary conversation. I wondered why this was, until I realized that the Army has, after noting that it has the power to crush small South American dictators with ease, proceeded to ignore all grammatical conventions and make up its own language. As an example of this observation, I offer a few common Army phrases and their translations:
We will SP at the RP with all SM that are OPCON’d = Hey ya’ll, come over to my house and meet the new neighbors!
The daily Fragmentary Order (FRAGO) has been published = Sweetie, I put the honey-do list on the fridge!
I have three PAX for immediate TA-CON to your CP = The kids are ready to be picked up from day-care
I have to do a Class One Download = Goina’ to read Army Times
Thank you for your support = F*** you!
Air BORNE! = Thought silently to oneself “I really think you’re an idiot but I am going to sound like I am enthusiastically agreeing with you by responding as loudly as possible without actually giving a coherent answer.”
Translation has become a regular part of my day. I work in a large operational control center, divided into individual offices. Our legal den of iniquity is tucked far in the back, behind some crates and under some rocks. Not really under some rocks, but it’s a good metaphor for all the unfinished legal actions I have been finding lying around the office after moving in and turning over all those rocks. Unsure of where to go when I first walked into the building, I turned to one of the soldiers guarding the entrance and asked him where I should go. He replied, I’m not sure ma’am, but people seem to be matriculating over there. He was trying so hard, I just smiled and kept walking. Apparently I am reaping the benefits of the word of the day toilet paper the Army has been purchasing.
Last week, for the second time in my Army career, I have gotten into a 30 minute argument as to whether irregardless is a word. As in, irregardless of whether its beef or chicken, the chow hall will make the meat taste exactly the same as last night, over cooked and smothered in barbeque sauce. I take the position , rightly so, as proved by its presence in the tome of Webster, that irregardless is a word and should, nay, must, be used in conversation. Others take the less enlightened, albeit more letteroelogically efficient, that you must use the word regardless. While this disagreement is not particularly funny, neither are most of the jokes that fly between me and the other two fiscal law attorneys (e.g. Have you seen this acquisition request? Can you believe that they miprd for a contract extension without an option year?) While the three of us thought this was extremely shocking and hilarious, the operational attorneys across the aisle merely groaned and threw wads of paper to make us be quiet.) In order to settle the argument sans fisticuffs, my colleague and I turned to Webster, who had the most witty, Postcard-worthy comment on the debate and the absolute last word. I quote;
Irregardless originated in dialectical American speech in the early 20th century. Its fairly widespread use in speech called it to the attention of usage commentators as early as 1927. The most frequently repeated remark about it is that there is no such word. There is such a word, however. It is still used primarily in speech, although it can be found from time to time in edited prose. Its reputation has not risen over the years, and it is still a long way from general acceptance.
Oh the burn, the ignominy of being bested!!! So, having proven my point that it is indeed a word, Mr. Webster proceeded to embarrass me into grammatical shame! Apparently, irregardless of how sage I think I am.
Perhaps my misplaced hubris stemmed from an incident last week when my Trivial Pursuit/Jeopardy Brain Cells tripped into overdrive. I was loitering in the waiting area of the medical clinic, having escorted one of my co-workers in for some medication, when one of the medics charged out from the treatment area asking for help from the other medics on a crossword.
Medic One What was that thing that the Greek Emperor said that had all the Vs?
At this point my sense of self-importance puffed up like a blow fish facing a Japanese sushi master and I smiled smugly while congratulating myself for knowing that not only was Caesar was Roman, but that the saying was veni, vidi, vici, or I came, I saw, I conquered.
Medic Two Wasn’t it something like Vente, Grande, Mocha?
Medic One Yeah, but no.
Medic Two Why don’t I Google it?
At this point, I should say to all of our national leaders, that if you want to stop our enemies from Veni, Vidi, Vici all over suburban America, take down the Google website. It has become the one-stop research tool for the military. If the Taliban could Google, they would know pretty much everything our intel guys know.
Medic Two Here it is Veni, Vidi, Vici

Google point proven.

The post Postcards from the Stan: Let me Orientate you to how we Conversate in the Army appeared first on That Little Redheaded Girl's Internet Den of Delights!.

Greetings again, gentle readers. For those of you who have followed my little musings last year, (all four of you, well, really just my mom and dad because they have to) and for those of your new to my unique brand of humor, it seems that the Army has seen fit to send me to yet another desolate location to practice the second oldest profession in the history of mankind. In order to survive in this rockiest of remote locations, I find it helps to write humorous antidotes to lighten the dreary load and to keep in touch with friends and family. Again, I make no claim to being truthful or factually correct, but rather the goal is to poke the most fun possible at the strange life led by an Army officer.
I must say, the trip to the Stan was much better than the trip to my prior dirt pile. After several stops, starts, stops and more stops, (nine days worth) we finally landed with a hurk and a jerk in a big military jet airplane high in the altitudes of the Stan. After getting settled into my little room, embarking on a grand tour of the camp (all ten minutes of it) and finding my desk in the big operational control center, I began work. As you all know, even though I have been in the Army for some time, in my particular job, I don’t shoot a lot of bullets for the Army. (In fact, they really didn’t give us lawyers more than a handful when we landed, in all honesty, I got a sandwich baggie full. Yep, a whole baloney sandwich’s worth of ammo. Not exactly the most confidence inspiring, but there you go.)
While I still am an Army lawyer, I have taken on a new Sisyphean work assignment for this deployment. While I used to prosecute military criminal offenses in the Sandy Place, I now have the dubious honor of opining on the most obscure of administrative and regulatory matters. Most of what I do involves sitting at a computer and going to lots of meetings and rendering my opinion, all ten cents worth, on matters of such earth shattering national importance such as the ethical legality of the rug given the third ranking General at the camp. As compensation for my often mind numbingly boring job, I have been awarded the title of Chief of my little section. Of course, in reality I am merely Chief of Myself, since I am the only person working in my area and am not yet senior enough to merit minions.
On my first day, I was summoned to a meeting at 0700. But, as I soon learned, 0700 doesn’t really mean what you and I would take to mean 0700. Oh no. The Stan runs on several different clocks, the main clock is called Zulu time. While it sounds the stuff of cheesy dime store thrillers with military heroes called Jock and Striker, the Army really still uses this marker to standardize time. While it is the absolute world wide standard, it bears no reality to the actual time of day. The actual time of day is called Local time. In order to determine what time it is in Zulu time, you must engage in incredibly complicated math, using a formula the may be lost even on some of MIT’s finest. Now folks, I have never claimed to be the smartest of pups, in fact I will proudly proclaim that went to law school expressly so that I didn’t have to do math. So the conversation that follows is what happened when they asked a bunch of numerically challenged lawyers to show up at a meeting scheduled in Zulu time.
Are you going to be in the office at 0700 Zulu for the meeting?
I don’t know, what time is it now?
Its 0530.
Is that 0530 Zulu or 0530 Local?
Its 0530 Local.
So what time is the meeting in local time?
Not sure, but I know its four hours from now.
Four hours from now Local or four hours from now Zulu?
What?
When?
Oh Geez, just be in the Conference Room in four hours!
Fortunately, I did make it to the meeting on time. Unfortunately, it lasted two looooooonnnnggg hours, hours which didn’t go by any quicker in Zulu time.

The post Postcards from the Stan: What time is it anyway? appeared first on That Little Redheaded Girl's Internet Den of Delights!.