Shirt vs. Tobacco

Remember. I am deployed to a war zone. There may always be danger, so we must always think tactically. There are always little wars going on. The other day, I was caught by a surprise attack, and found myself unprepared. I started at a tactical disadvantage, because I had forgotten to go to a meeting, which is a huge no-no.

It started when the Command Master Chief approached me the other day, with a forced smile that was not quite adequate to hide his slanted scowl.

Battle I

“G’morning, Master Chief,” I said with a very wide smile, trying to counter his expression with a little cheer.

He replied with a tone of voice that was definitely more scowl than smile, “Doc, don’t you read the flight schedule?” This was quite the accusation, since it is understood as a standing order that everyone will read and abide by the flight schedule every day.

“Yes, Master Chief, I…” I stopped mid sentence when I remembered about the Chief’s meeting. I am not a Chief, so the “All Chiefs Meeting” on the schedule hadn’t really caught my attention. Now, as my face and scalp flushed a dark red, I remembered that the skipper had wanted me there to present something to the Chiefs about the psychology of morale. Master Chief could see the realization filtering through my brain, and knew his point had been made. Seeing my flushed bald head, he definitely had the upper hand in this little battle, and he was going to use it.

Now, for those of you not in the military, the Master Chief isn’t above me in the chain of command. He is the senior enlisted leader. Since I am an officer, I technically outrank him. But he is still part of the executive team. As a junior officer, I am definitely expected to show him respect. My flushed skin revealed my tactical disadvantage, so he came right in with another blow:

“Doc, it would also be very much appreciated if you could wear a brown shirt, sir,” he said as he looked at my tan garment top collar under my flight suit. Obviously something he had been saving for the right moment. Then, in my mind, a hundred possible comebacks flipped through, and were each suppressed in turn:

“Well, thanks, Master Chief, that was totally unrelated to the meeting. Do you just want a chance to straighten an officer up?”

“Master Chief, don’t talk to me about uniforms. The brown shirt with a flight suit isn’t even in writing, it’s just your preference, but not walking around with that plug of tobacco in your mouth is written three places in the uniform regs!”

“If someone in charge of me asks me to, I will, Master Chief.”

“OK, Master Chief, you want to play colors? I will change my shirt out as soon as you trade your tan belt for a black one like the regulations say!”

All these and more I let pass without saying anything.

“Noted, Master Chief.” I finally said. Then, to keep myself out of trouble, I let the moment end.

End Battle I – Result: Shirt Retreat/Defeat

I calmed down and restocked my weapons stores that had been exhausted in this miniature battle. I even strategized a little before re-engaging later that afternoon. The more I thought about the tobacco, the more the subject grated on me.

I am not only the doc, but I am the command health promotions officer. I have twenty people currently trying to quit tobacco, but it is really hard when tobacco permeates everything around us. In this Navy world, where we live and breathe by regulations, why are the tobacco regulations entirely disregarded? The Secretary of the Navy (our boss right under commander in chief) issued an order last year stating leaders shall “create, by personal example and command climate, a tobacco cessation program which supports abstinence and discourages use of all tobacco products. Leaders are encouraged to be tobacco free.” Furthermore, they shall “ensure tobacco use is not part of our culture and encourage a tobacco-free lifestyle.” Yet, my Commanding officer and Command Master Chief both love to stick a wad of that smelly worm dirt (Red Man and Copenhagen Long-Cut, respectively) in their lips as often as circumstances permit. Skipper spits the juice into cups, or trash cans, or on the ground – all of which are also expressly prohibited in the regulation. Master Chief swallows it, which is even worse. They also both love to smoke their evening cigars as a “cultural celebration” of another day well spent in the desert. Yes, as you can tell by my rant, my little mind did ruminate on these facts for a while.

I also couldn’t help but notice the part of the regulation stating “acceptance of free tobacco products is prohibited.” Then, reiterated in the next paragraph, “free distribution of tobacco products from organizations or businesses is prohibited.” Funny, since “care packages” from “troop support organizations” containing thousands of cigarettes and cigars have been sent, and are placed next to our snack area for free distribution.

Yes, we have all the free tobacco we could want. Most of it is candy flavored. You know how Congress just outlawed the candy flavored ones because they are used to get people addicted? Well, apparently the remaining stock is being laundered and shipped to servicemen through non-profits – a subtle reinstatement of the tobacco “morale” ration that ignited the military tobacco culture in the first place. Yes, my mind ruminated on these things too. But it wasn’t time to address those things quite yet.

Battle II

The same afternoon, after my rumination, I found myself driving in a car with Master Chief. “Master Chief, I didn’t think there was any specific color T-shirt prescribed in the regulation for wear under a flight suit.”

“I stand corrected, Doc, I think you’re right. It’s a squadron level determination. We Chiefs, however, are trying to ensure that the squadron is all wearing the issued brown shirts for uniformity.”

“The reason I wear a tan shirt, Master Chief, is because of my faith. You are from Idaho, are you familiar with the LDS religion?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We wear undergarments all the time as a religious symbol. Fortunately they do make these tan shirts for service members. Unfortunately they don’t make them in brown. I really would prefer to not wear an extra layer in 130 degree weather.”

“I respect the religious thing, doc,” said the Master Chief, though clearly without affection for it, “And I understand what you are saying about the heat.”

End Battle II -- Result: Shirt Victory

The very next day, and probably after some rumination of his own, Master Chief barged into the sick call office, unannounced. “Good morning, Doc.”

“Good morning, Master Chief.” I said, lifting my head to make eye contact. There was no eye contact to be made. His eyes were bouncing all over, as if he had entered so abruptly to chase a stray rat. But I noticed that every other bounce of is eyes seemed directed at my tan T-shirt collar.

“Doc, I just came to check on HM2 Wilson this morning.” He said, speaking of my (enlisted) corpsman, over whom he does have true authority. Then he turned to HM2.

“Hi, HM2. How are you? Oh – look at your hat. This isn’t right. The symbol needs to be updated. Make sure to get that done right away. Let’s all make sure our hats all have the right symbols and (his eyes now tilted my direction) that we are all wearing brown shirts. Have a good day, gentlemen.” Having accomplishes his purpose, and not wanting further discussion, he walked out as quickly as he came in.

“That’s OK,” I told myself. “I can wear two shirts. It drives Chiefs crazy anyway to have two shirts showing. I need to pick my battles wisely.”

End Battle II Revisited – Result: Shirt Victory Defeat/Retreat

Battle III --

The next day, I was given a little opportunity myself. My commanding officer walked in with a small medical complaint, which I cannot disclose due to privacy issues. I took the opportunity to mention how tobacco use could be related to this little complaint. After he left, I set to work.

Our designated tobacco area, or “smoke pit,” is exactly outside the back door to our main work area. Yes, this location is in violation of the regulations concerning tobacco use, but clearly we like to ignore those anyway. I looked up the regulations regarding its proximity to ordnance, flares, and oxygen bottles, and found some more condemning evidence. Then I went to my Executive Officer. The XO, the one person in the executive office who is tobacco free, listened to my case, and offered some challenges. Finally, he told me to find a suitable alternate location, and we will make it happen. We will move the smoke pit further away. Small victory.

Next, I crafted a careful letter for the Master Chief related to a conversation from days earlier, but which cited some applicable portions of the tobacco regulations that we violate routinely. I know this will at least cause some heartburn for Mr. Mega Rule Enforcer.

Finally, after working late that night, I went to the snack area at about midnight. I grabbed an empty Dr. Pepper case and filled it to heaping with tobacco products. “What are you doing, Doc?” said one junior sailor “You don’t smoke, do you?”

I smiled in reply, “I heard these were free for whoever wanted them.” I deposited them in the back of a dumpster, careful to place them behind some very smelly bags. I returned for a second heaping armful, completely emptying the supply. The second trip was made not without notice, but at least without interrogation. This time I stomped on each box before tossing it. I was honestly quite nervous, because I think that distribution spot had some high level support. I had just thrown away several hundred dollars worth of "gifts." To my delight, I was not summoned to see the Skipper in the morning.

End Battle III – Result: Tobacco Defeat/Retreat

I am a United States Sailor, and sailors don’t give up. I will continue to fight the battles that come my way, and take my little victories where I can. I’m sorry, though, that you have to hear me rant about all of them.

DFAC

Yesterday I ate ice cream. It was good. Most days I’ve been able to resist the temptation. I think that was only my 3rd helping since I arrived – OK, maybe 4th. The DFAC is what we call the Dining FACility. If this was a Navy installation, it would be the galley or chow hall. But in this not so nautical world, it’s the DFAC. When I got here, I quickly realized that the DFAC was going to be my biggest enemy.

The DFAC is a modular structure – like a bunch of trailers all hooked together. It is surrounded by a tall grey concrete wall that makes it hard to really size down. As I approached it, I was expecting it to be kind of a small joint. I entered for the first time into a smallish room without windows, and with the walls completely covered by stainless steel sinks. Papers taped to the wall above the backsplash caulking declared “HANDWASHING IS MANDATORY.” One of these papers was even in a frame, which, out here, lets you know the contents are important. There were also graphics posted to visually instruct us in proper hand washing technique. As I advanced past the garbage can full of paper towels, another set of taped papers caught my eye. These used scare tactics, just in case we had gotten this far without washing our hands. They threatened diarrhea unless we complied with the prescribed course of cleansing.

Having been properly sanitized, I merged again with the flow of people headed deeper into the DFAC. We shuffled through another small room, where we each, in turn, scanned our ID cards and grabbed a tray. I followed the faint boot prints on the white tile floor a few more steps, then looked up.

Instantly overwhelming. All the food you can imagine. An enormous quantity of food. I turned my head to the right and saw a wings bar with buffalo wings, barbecue wings, and fried wings. Next to that was the Mexican bar with all manner of tortilla and bean choices. An aroma of cilantro led my eyes to the vegetarian bar with some great smelling eggplant parmesan. Turning my head straight again I saw the main line with potatoes, barbeque ribs, corn on the cob, baked trout, fried trout, and baked potatoes. A glance to the left found a fast food line with onion rings, burgers, fries, and other deep fried goodness. In the middle of the room I ran my bulging eyes down a huge salad bar. Across the aisle was a hot sandwich line, a cold sandwich line, a fruit bar, and a soup serving area. In the center of the room was a huge wire basket full of single serving cups of every cereal ever invented, as if it were a monument to General Mills himself. And all around the room, I saw hundreds of tables with thousands of sweaty, uniformed bodies in a whir of conversation and mouth stuffing, with ketchup and hot sauce being dripped liberally to their trays.

Finally, next to the 17 coolers filled with soda, juice, and Gatorade, I eyed the desert display. Cheesecake, chocolate cake, every kind of cookie (big ones), smoothies, baked cobblers, pumpkin pie, pecan pie, and all the ice cream you can eat. Cookies and Cream, Chocolate, Vanilla, Pralines… Baskin Robbins. Except here, the whipped cream, hot fudge, and nuts are self-serve.

As I stood there for the first time, I was totally lost. Questions in my head overcame my hunger, and prolonged inaction. How do they get all of this out here? Is this why the Higginson kid came back from the Marines so fat? How much (taxpayer) money does it cost to feed each of us each day? Is this a terrorist plot to fatten and decondition the entire U.S. military? My initial excitement died down a little when I reasoned that the food must be terrible. After shipping it halfway around the world and preparing it in the biggest school cafeteria you can imagine, it was going to be bad.

I finally noticed that my standing in awe was holding up the line behind me. Re-engaging my military bearing, I followed the flow to the main line and filled my plate. I wanted to try at least a few of the tempting dishes, but didn’t have room on the tray for a fraction of the offerings. I sat down, still expecting some taste disappointment. Then I realized I had been totally wrong. Cafeteria food can be good. The ribs were tender and tasted like they had been rubbed, marinated, and sauced before they came off the grill in the back yard. The lettuce was green, cool, and crisp. Even the steamed carrots were crisp, not soggy, and were topped with a little butter and just a dash of pepper. And the Baskin Robbins was the real stuff.

The DFAC is definitely the enemy. Three times each day, I fight another battle with it, trying to strengthen the self control of my jaw with each surrendered bite.

Dust

This morning we woke up to dust. It kind of reminded us of being home because it looked like fog. Nope. Dust. It wasn't the first dust storm we have had, but the others have been gusty. This one was still. The dust hung in the air as if suspended by some magnetic force, and very slowly showered down.

It covers everything. It even covers me. I went to the gym this morning and when I first wiped the sweat from my head, it was muddy. People who have hair had had it frosted by fine dust.

The sun coming through the dust provided a reddish glow. We decided we were on Mars. Hot. Red. No plants. Must be Mars.

There were not very many people in sick call today. Medical is kind of a far walk from everything else. I think they didn't want to walk through the dust. They had breathed too much dust already without hiking out here. I had better have a lot of sinus medications ready for tomorrow.

Hot and Cold

Hello!

Sorry it’s been a while since you heard from me. I’ve been busy. I think I have seen about 90 people with colds in the last week. And, yes, I had one myself. It’s probably due to the change in environment. We breathe a lot of dust here, and probably a lot of spores from the mold growing in the air conditioners. Somehow we all get colds.

I won’t complain about the A/C though. It’s great. There is a huge contrast in the worlds on opposite sides of the door. My sister Marie would have loved it when she was a kid. I don’t have too many memories of Marie as a kid. I recall some Mr. Magoo fights and the Tent Bub episode, but not too many more. I do recall, however, that she had a small obsession with temperature extremes. If we were freezing our fingertips playing in the snow, she would want to imagine a desert island with the sun pouring down thickly. If we were on our way to a hot (but scenic) desert destination in the back of a stifling van with no A/C and a heater that couldn’t quite be turned off all the way, she would want to imagine a snow storm.

I think every kid thinks those thoughts, but Marie thought them a lot. And vocalized them a lot. Well, she would love this place. The A/C is cold enough indoors that your ears and fingers slowly get a little tingly. You have hardly noticed it because it is so subtle, like a frog in a pot. But then, when you go outside, the instant blast of warm air feels great on all the little cold parts of your body. There’s almost always wind, too, so it feels like the heater in your car turned on really high on the way home from sledding. Then, after a few moments of bliss, you realize this is the kind of heater that does not turn off. Sweat will soon be dripping down the small of your back and through the nether regions, unpleasantly moistening your shorts underneath the uniform. The converse pleasure is felt when you go back indoors.

I have had enough time left over after sick call to take on another project. A couple of months ago, I established a health promotions committee in the command, but we hadn’t done anything yet. We are now pushing ahead full steam with 3 different projects. We are doing a biggest loser competition, a running club, and a tobacco quitting group, all with incentives. It has been interesting. There has been great participation. here are currently 17 people quitting tobacco, which is great. The funniest thing about it was the negotiation for the incentives.

I sat down with my Skipper and Command Master Chief to negotiate what I could give away. The Navy is very clear on health promotions and tobacco cessation, and supports the programs on a large scale. In my command, however, the support is less enthusiastic. I was sitting there with the leaders of the command: Master Chief, lifelong Copenhagen dipper conducting a nightly deployment countdown by watching his cigar supply dwindle, and my skipper, a recently relapsed dipper (albeit on the sly) and frequent countdown participant. I wanted to send the winners of all our competitions to Sigonella, Italy for a little while. I thought it would be doable, but I was quickly shut down. My next attempt was to send the winners to Bahrain - still pretty cool. Great shopping, nice hotel, etc. Shut down. I finally settled on sending the winners to a spot that is pretty much exactly like the one we are at (military installation in the desert) but where you can get beer. Great. The final prize for the health promotions contest is beer. To be truthful, there are a couple of other prizes, too.

That’s about all that is going on. Except the foot problems. I am a well-qualified expert on blisters and athlete’s foot. You can even throw a little pitted keratolysis in there (that means really pungent, stinky feet growing corynebacteria).