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LJ Idol 7.2: Deconstruction
Nov. 13th, 2010 12:18 pmIt was the first of June, and if I had correctly understood the message being delivered by the captain visiting our unit's morning formation, as of zero hundred that day (what civilians call "midnight"), every poisonous snake within the boundaries of Camp Pendleton was authorized to "lock and load" its fangs with "live" venom and to consider the vast territory of the Marine base a "free bite" zone.
The captain went on, instructing us on how best to avoid getting bitten—give reptiles a wide berth—and then explained what to do if a snake did bite you—put your lips on the wound and suck out any injected poison.
When the time came to ask any questions that may have occurred to us during the briefing, I was about to ask how the Marine Corps had arranged for rattlesnakes and copperheads to refrain from biting base personnel before the first of June when I was beaten to the punch by an unfamiliar voice from the back of the formation.
"Cap'n, sir, you said to suck out the poison if you get bit, but—what if you get bit—uh, you know—like, in the ass?"
Whatever human-caused rustling there might have been within the formation ceased at once, to better hear what the officer might have to say in response to such a frank and indelicate question.
The captain cocked his head slightly to one side, smiled a little, and replied: "Well, private, I guess that's when you find out who your true friends are."
Rim shot, I thought to myself as I and the rest of the men in the formation chuckled politely. The joke had doubtless been old when the Marines began to recruit "a few good men" at Tun Tavern in 1775.
After the formation was dismissed, I reported to my truck for the trip out to our work area. "Work," for our little group, was a series of assignments to remove and collect lengths of copper wire from sites that were no longer in use. Our latest job was at the extreme north end of the base, thirty klicks east of the middle of nowhere, where our objective was to recover a strand of copper telegraph wire from a string of widely spaced hilltop utility poles.
The temporary assignment, as a lineman at Pendleton, was actually pretty challenging, though not without its risks. A few weeks before, our truck had been sent to an abandoned prison compound that was being "deconstructed" piecemeal to maximize recovery of materials for later reuse. There, I was assigned the task of climbing the guard towers to disconnect some wiring inside each guard hut. Everything went smoothly until I got to the third tower.
There, I climbed the vertical ladder the same way I had done twice before, and as my head came up above the level of the hut floor, a huge white owl that had built a nest under the hut's duty desk spread its wings and lunged directly at my face. My hands instinctively flew up to protect my eyes as a defensive reaction.
With both hands in front of my face, however, I started to fall backward, off the ladder, which is not something you want to do while positioned thirty-some-odd feet up in the air, so without really thinking about it, I quickly jerked one hand back away from my face and grabbed for the ladder.
It wasn't a graceful move, but it worked, even if my feet slipped off their rungs, leaving me in an awkward, painful position with one leg actually sticking through the ladder as the owl flew off. By some miracle, aside from some abused muscles, I escaped injury. Shaken, I went back to the truck to get my safety belt before climbing any more towers.
On that first day of June, my job involved waiting by a wooden utility pole on hill A while our truck dropped other crew members at poles on adjacent hills B and C before proceeding to a pole on hill D. As the truck drove away, I sat down on a large rock for the 40-minute wait until the truck was in position. While I waited, I put on my climbers—steel contraptions that doubtless took their inspiration from artifacts in medieval torture chambers and were outfitted with small, sharp steel spikes called gaffs to support the wearer's weight while climbing, working on, or descending wooden utility poles. Then I directed my attention at the hill that was the truck's destination.
After some time, a stream of green smoke billowed from the hill, which was the signal for me and the two other linemen to climb the poles on our respective hilltops and stand by to cut the strand of wire that had probably been strung when Woodrow Wilson had been President. I put on my tool belt, safety belt, and heavy leather gloves and then waded through some dense brush to the bottom of the pole, where I secured my safety belt around the pole and began climbing. Once at the top, I prepared to use my wire-cutters.
A few minutes later, I saw red smoke erupt from that same hill, which was the signal for everyone to cut wire. The wire was cut at each pole at pretty much the same time, thereby averting any unfortunate consequences that might occur if the wire's weight and tension were to be suddenly relieved on only one side of any given pole.
My job done for the day, I began to climb down the pole.
Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch!
I stopped. So did the rattling sound. I waited a few seconds and then, incredulous at the thought of there being a rattlesnake below me, I unstuck a gaff and took another step down the pole.
Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch!
I froze once more, but this time the rattling sound continued for several seconds. It was coming from somewhere near the base of the pole, but the waist-high brush prevented me from seeing anything on the ground. From my position, some yards up in the air, the only real way to give the reptile a wide berth was to stay where I was. That, or—
Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch!
I threw my wire-cutters down at the base of the pole. The rattling sound stopped. I counted to ten and took another step down.
Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch!
I threw the rest of my tools, one by one, down at the hidden snake. Then I threw down my gloves, but the rattling resumed any time I would fidget, and as the time passed and my legs became weary, I fidgeted quite a bit. The rattling continued.
Eventually, with the muscles in my legs screaming bloody murder, I decided that—snake or no snake—I could not allow myself to be caught in this position when the truck arrived to pick me up. I would never hear the end of having been "treed" by a snake! As I noisily descended the rest of the way to the ground, I thought I heard something slither into the thicker brush on the side of the pole away from the road. But even more important, I heard no rattling.
By the time the truck returned, I had removed my climbers, retrieved my tools, and was sitting on the rock near where I had been dropped off, massaging my legs but otherwise acting as if nothing at all had happened.
"Just another glorious day in the Corps," yelled our civilian supervisor, a retired Marine, out the driver's window as the truck pulled to a stop. "Good work, private! Get in, and let's go home!"
I was only too happy to comply.
The captain went on, instructing us on how best to avoid getting bitten—give reptiles a wide berth—and then explained what to do if a snake did bite you—put your lips on the wound and suck out any injected poison.
When the time came to ask any questions that may have occurred to us during the briefing, I was about to ask how the Marine Corps had arranged for rattlesnakes and copperheads to refrain from biting base personnel before the first of June when I was beaten to the punch by an unfamiliar voice from the back of the formation.
"Cap'n, sir, you said to suck out the poison if you get bit, but—what if you get bit—uh, you know—like, in the ass?"
Whatever human-caused rustling there might have been within the formation ceased at once, to better hear what the officer might have to say in response to such a frank and indelicate question.
The captain cocked his head slightly to one side, smiled a little, and replied: "Well, private, I guess that's when you find out who your true friends are."
Rim shot, I thought to myself as I and the rest of the men in the formation chuckled politely. The joke had doubtless been old when the Marines began to recruit "a few good men" at Tun Tavern in 1775.
After the formation was dismissed, I reported to my truck for the trip out to our work area. "Work," for our little group, was a series of assignments to remove and collect lengths of copper wire from sites that were no longer in use. Our latest job was at the extreme north end of the base, thirty klicks east of the middle of nowhere, where our objective was to recover a strand of copper telegraph wire from a string of widely spaced hilltop utility poles.
The temporary assignment, as a lineman at Pendleton, was actually pretty challenging, though not without its risks. A few weeks before, our truck had been sent to an abandoned prison compound that was being "deconstructed" piecemeal to maximize recovery of materials for later reuse. There, I was assigned the task of climbing the guard towers to disconnect some wiring inside each guard hut. Everything went smoothly until I got to the third tower.
There, I climbed the vertical ladder the same way I had done twice before, and as my head came up above the level of the hut floor, a huge white owl that had built a nest under the hut's duty desk spread its wings and lunged directly at my face. My hands instinctively flew up to protect my eyes as a defensive reaction.
With both hands in front of my face, however, I started to fall backward, off the ladder, which is not something you want to do while positioned thirty-some-odd feet up in the air, so without really thinking about it, I quickly jerked one hand back away from my face and grabbed for the ladder.
It wasn't a graceful move, but it worked, even if my feet slipped off their rungs, leaving me in an awkward, painful position with one leg actually sticking through the ladder as the owl flew off. By some miracle, aside from some abused muscles, I escaped injury. Shaken, I went back to the truck to get my safety belt before climbing any more towers.
On that first day of June, my job involved waiting by a wooden utility pole on hill A while our truck dropped other crew members at poles on adjacent hills B and C before proceeding to a pole on hill D. As the truck drove away, I sat down on a large rock for the 40-minute wait until the truck was in position. While I waited, I put on my climbers—steel contraptions that doubtless took their inspiration from artifacts in medieval torture chambers and were outfitted with small, sharp steel spikes called gaffs to support the wearer's weight while climbing, working on, or descending wooden utility poles. Then I directed my attention at the hill that was the truck's destination.
After some time, a stream of green smoke billowed from the hill, which was the signal for me and the two other linemen to climb the poles on our respective hilltops and stand by to cut the strand of wire that had probably been strung when Woodrow Wilson had been President. I put on my tool belt, safety belt, and heavy leather gloves and then waded through some dense brush to the bottom of the pole, where I secured my safety belt around the pole and began climbing. Once at the top, I prepared to use my wire-cutters.
A few minutes later, I saw red smoke erupt from that same hill, which was the signal for everyone to cut wire. The wire was cut at each pole at pretty much the same time, thereby averting any unfortunate consequences that might occur if the wire's weight and tension were to be suddenly relieved on only one side of any given pole.
My job done for the day, I began to climb down the pole.
Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch!
I stopped. So did the rattling sound. I waited a few seconds and then, incredulous at the thought of there being a rattlesnake below me, I unstuck a gaff and took another step down the pole.
Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch!
I froze once more, but this time the rattling sound continued for several seconds. It was coming from somewhere near the base of the pole, but the waist-high brush prevented me from seeing anything on the ground. From my position, some yards up in the air, the only real way to give the reptile a wide berth was to stay where I was. That, or—
Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch!
I threw my wire-cutters down at the base of the pole. The rattling sound stopped. I counted to ten and took another step down.
Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch!
I threw the rest of my tools, one by one, down at the hidden snake. Then I threw down my gloves, but the rattling resumed any time I would fidget, and as the time passed and my legs became weary, I fidgeted quite a bit. The rattling continued.
Eventually, with the muscles in my legs screaming bloody murder, I decided that—snake or no snake—I could not allow myself to be caught in this position when the truck arrived to pick me up. I would never hear the end of having been "treed" by a snake! As I noisily descended the rest of the way to the ground, I thought I heard something slither into the thicker brush on the side of the pole away from the road. But even more important, I heard no rattling.
By the time the truck returned, I had removed my climbers, retrieved my tools, and was sitting on the rock near where I had been dropped off, massaging my legs but otherwise acting as if nothing at all had happened.
"Just another glorious day in the Corps," yelled our civilian supervisor, a retired Marine, out the driver's window as the truck pulled to a stop. "Good work, private! Get in, and let's go home!"
I was only too happy to comply.
