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This is a question War

Pooflake says: Tell us your stories of conflict. From the pettiest row that got out of hand, through full blown battles involving mass brawls and destruction to your real war / army stories.

(, Thu 31 May 2012, 11:55)
Pages: Popular, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

My parents moved to Doha at the tail end of the Gulf War.
The airport got hit by a Scud missile later the day after they arrived.
The skies where black from the burning oilfields, and I subsequently used the civilian issue gas masks as shoulder-pads for an outfit I wore down the Slimelight.
(, Tue 5 Jun 2012, 20:14, Reply)

When you put hand into a puddle of goo that used to be your best friends face!!
(, Tue 5 Jun 2012, 18:44, 5 replies)
I was a 75 yo. asshole when I first joined up.
Altho my unit was a bunch of old farts we did ok. & I got to catchup with my dead missus.
Silver lining and all that.
(, Tue 5 Jun 2012, 6:52, 2 replies)
Do not mention ze war.
'Puts fingers under nose and goose steps through the dining room'
(, Tue 5 Jun 2012, 6:38, Reply)
During the War

(, Tue 5 Jun 2012, 0:15, 5 replies)
laser quest
I'm a volunteer at a kids group and a few summers ago had the privilege of organising a day trip for 20 7-10 year old girls. Being an adventurous sort I decided that I would let them spend a few hours running around in the dark shooting each others with lasers. After all they were young ladies in training and what harm could it be.
After we're all kitted up and shown what to do I divide us into a few small groups and the cry goes out to let the games begin. We run around aimlessly for the first few minutes as the girls get to grips with these strange gun things and find their way round the dark course.
One by one the groups head off and start making bases around the lower levels of the course and all that can be heard is whispering girls and in the dark it is the most unnerving thing you can hear. I head off on my own thinking my age and size is sure to protect me when I suddenly find myself falling over a fairly large obstacle. Within seconds I'm pinned to the ground by 20 girls and one by one they spend the next 5 minutes repeatedly shooting me. After much negotiating I was freed and allowed back into battle. When we finally finish and the printouts are handed out the man behind the desk comments on the ridiculously high number of hits I took when a voice pipes up "We had it all planned out for days, I lay on the floor and tripped her over and everyone else waited to pin her down". These girls are now 14-17 and if they could plan such a great strategy at such a young age imagine what they could do now!
(, Mon 4 Jun 2012, 21:02, 2 replies)
The Cold War left some interesting buildings, anyway.
While in Berlin I took a recommendation from a friend and did a little bit of urban exploration. I went here and clambered about for an afternoon.

That large tower with the radar bubble on top was the really amazing part. Up there where the satellite dishes once sat is now empty, but with the most astonishing acoustics I have ever encountered. This may give you an idea of what it's like- I stood in the center and clapped my hands, and it sounded like gunfire in a canyon. Then I went to the wall of it and tapped on it, which sounded even weirder still.

I really wonder what it was like in there at the height of the Cold War. Now it's full of broken glass and graffiti and weird noises as the wind howls through it.

Oh, and I really want one day to do this.
(, Mon 4 Jun 2012, 20:34, 8 replies)
Killer Bovines
Like all of us who had a normal 70's childhood, I was raised with Commando & Warlord comics (used to read them with a bowl of Frosties most mornings) and an entire unit of Action Men (all had gripping hands and could go into battle with a scorpion tank, an artillery piece and a gyrocopter for support)

As I grew up, these were replaced by airfix soldiers (I always though the Africa Korp was the coolest) and I became addicted to wargaming, with SPI games bought from Games Centre, and a subbuteo field was turned upside down for extra realism with my model army

By my twenties, therefore, I was hankering to do it for real and after an initial foray into the OTC at University, I joined a TA unit

I suppose every Regiment thinks they are hardcore, but it can't be denied (especially after a few G&T's) that this one had high training standards (by that I mean distances marched, and weights carried). Add to that lots of unusual extras like learning morse code, 'resistance to interrogation' courses, and doing everything in teams of four made it extra sexy. Frankly, we all saw Bravo 2-0 as kindred spirits

However, the story I relate shows that sometimes 'hardness' is just skin deep

During one particular weekend, we were on 'patrols' in a team of four moving tactically through some part of the Cornwall countryside (I know it was Cornwall because it would not stop raining).

Now, essential to the plot, I must tell you about one particular army routine (called SOPs or 'standard Operating Procedures), called an 'obstacle crossing'. An example of its application would be crossing a road when enemy might see you. It starts with everyone lying in a semi circle with their weapons pointing outwards in an arc, then crossing one by one, and ending up in a similar fashion (but facing the other way obviously) as the last one crosses. It's kind of SOP thats says 'yep, perfect place for an ambush, let's be ready'

So, here we are, soaked, no sleep the night before and it's about 3am now. We are looking very 'war-like' as you would expect, all gear, guns and faces streaked with cam (just lurve using the lingo). After emerging from a wooded area that we had 'advanced' through quietly for 2km, we come to a stone wall about waist height. It is completely apparent there is no enemy anywhere (I say this because it was basically a navigation exercise, and even the directing staff would not be stupid enough to go out in this rain), but the boss decides we have to do an obstacle crossing.

We dutifully get down in an arc with weapons ready (it's amazing how much noise mud can make) and the first man crosses over. In a moment begins a rumbling sound. In my sleepy state, I could have sworn the ground was shaking too but, even if I imagined that, the sound is unmistakeable. We then hear 'Christ, get over here quick!' from the bloke who first crossed. SOP goes out the window (he's practically shouting it) and the three of us bundle over the wall

The rumbling is still getting louder and through the rain & darkness I can see the edge of the hill ripple. It was seriously weird, like the ground was moving in waves towards us. I remember my pulse beginning to race wondering what the fuck was going on, squinting in the rain, trying to work out what I could see. Instinctively we all lowered our weapons ready to shoot (fat lot of good that would have done as we had about 20 blanks each).

There we were, hard soldiers, standing in an arc, guns at the ready, fingers on the the triggers, safety off ready for some kind of showdown. I kid you not, SEAL TEAM 6 could not have looked cooler

About 30 seconds later we are surrounded by about 100 cows, standing silently, staring at us. They must have heard our footsteps and thought 'Great, we're going to get fed'. I know what the they were thinking as they were all salivating bucket loads (bit like the two aliens from The Simpsons). Yes, we special forces soldiers were surrounded and outnumbered by cows. Having that many cows looking at you like they want to eat you is actually rather unnerving (especially when you are so tired to begin with) and every one of us was jerking our gun from left to right, breathing is gasps

The standoff was broken however, when one of group said "Hang on, aren't cows herbivores?!"

We fell about laughing

I seriously wish we had cameras. Every time I see the aliens on The Simpsons, I am reminded of the time I thought I was going to get eaten by cows
(, Mon 4 Jun 2012, 17:11, 9 replies)
Was NCO in cadets at school - quartermaster.
We used to regularly go on exercises with the Army and the Reserves.
Cas-evac was always good fun - usually riding point in an ambulance thru the bush to get casualties. If you were unlucky you were made up as a casualty with some horrific wound and dumped somewhere out in the bush (sometimes with a radio) and spending hours waiting for recon to find you and us to trundle along in said ambo to come and save you.

Head counts weren't always top of the priority list.
Anyhoo - 1 night after a long day the "make up squad" is regaling us about 1 of the leg wounds they'd done. After a couple more sips of beer one of us ponders this for a moment & then asks "Who exactly was that on." "Oh, Johannes Schmidt." says they. "That's funny" says us, "we never picked him up." & then it turns out neither had any of the other weekend-warrior ambo crews.
Cue a mad rush to the landies and off everyone goes to find him. We tried getting the crew that had dropped him off on the blower but apparently the pub was causing too much interference. None of the recon guys had seen him either.
Now we were in the shit. Game over on account of lost casualty.
We found him wandering near the road about 3ks. from base. He was pissed off but after a few libations saw the humour in the situation.
Our CO however didn't. Always try to leave the field with the same no. of players that you started with!
(, Mon 4 Jun 2012, 9:48, Reply)
Sorry for the lack of funneh.
In my job with the Civil Service I often find myself at the Defence Rehabilitation Centre at Headley Court in Surrey. For those of you who don't know about this place it is where injured soldiers are sent for rehabilitation after they leave hospital.

Some of these folks have some of the most horrific injuries I have ever seen ranging from horrific burns to single, double, and often triple amputees not mention some of the psychiatric problems that many of these soldiers need treatment for.

Without fail each and everyone of these people (outwardly at least) hold no bitterness, no hatred and no anger to anyone. To a man, each and every one of those soldiers says they would rather it have been them that was injured rather than a mate and that they would return to active duty would their injuries permit it.

The courage these people show in the face of such injuries and their determination to do the things that we all take for granted, such as wiping their own backsides or just being able to walk from the living room to the kitchen unaided is genuinely astonishing.

The rather rambling point I'm trying to make is we've uttered the immortal words about how that particular day at work could not have been worse.

Trust me. Yes it could have been.
(, Sun 3 Jun 2012, 19:00, 6 replies)
I can't read Brideshead Revisited
because of the fog of Waugh.
(, Sun 3 Jun 2012, 15:52, 2 replies)
war games
about 2 years ago, i got the chance to go paintballing, something i'd long wanted to do. if you've never done it, i strongly reccommend you do.
we got split into 4 groups, with each group comprised of 2 opposing teams. then, we were taken through the safety procedures(if you lift your helmet's visor, they really WILL throw you out), given our guns and shown to our first battleground.
i was in the white team. we were fighting the blue team. we took up positions inside a crudely constructed log "castle" and awaited the enemy's attack.
it was laughable. a bunch of middle-aged dads and teenage lads, crashing through the undergrowth with all the stealth of a rhino on viagra. they didn't stand a chance.
i'd been lucky enough to nab myself a sniper's position and, let me tell you, the first time you see one of your paint bullets explode all over someone's rented combat gear, you get a buzz in your head that lets you know you definitely want to see it again.
all through the afternoon, we defended and attacked various wooden structures, taking many a hit in the process. being shot in the arse HURTS. i can't complain, though, i did manage to accidentally(yes, really) shoot someone in the cock. this stopped the others using my arse as target practice.
the last battle of the day is a free-for-all, no-holds barred, last man standing tussle that anyone who wants to can be in. as it was getting late by this time and the last battle is known for being more vicious than the others, several parents were dragging their protesting offspring out of the battle zone. bad luck for the kids. as a result of this, there was a great deal of ammo being given away by said parents. good luck for me.
i went into that last battle fully tooled up with about 3,000 paint bullets, 5 paint grenades and 3 smoke grenades. fuck teamwork, i was going rambo on these cunts.
screaming like a banshee, i tore off down the hill towards enemy lines, shooting at anything that moved, be it friend, foe or unfortunate squirrel. i have never had so much fun in my life. i took out 3 of my own team, 8 enemies, one marshal and covered the place in paint and smoke.
i arrived home tired, bruised from head to foot, but extremely happy. i could easily have gone again the next day.
war may be hell, but paintball is fucking epic.
(, Sun 3 Jun 2012, 15:27, 20 replies)
First post
Please be gentle, use plenty of lube and cuddle me after.

More years ago than I want to think about, I was an air cadet (the best *kind* of cadet. We go up, the rest of you just go along). Most of the time our activities were limited to marching around in formation, playing in the band and futilely attempting to see Corporal Conway's tits through the gender-bending woollen horror that was the standard uniform.

However! Every so often we'd have a week away at a Proper Military Base, where there would be shooting, flying and walking until it felt like our femurs were poking out of the soles of of our feet. Which was fine, of course, because we were Hard Men. Oh yeah. That's us - 15-18 year olds whose body weight was mostly made up of pimples. 'aaard.

On one such occasion, we went out for a night exercise; 30 cadets, three pseudo-officers and a metric shitton of tarp. Camped out in a forest, we were split into groups by gender and given a scenario. Apparently, we were in enemy territory. A plane had come down at this location, and we were to find it and rescue the pilot - a straw-stuffed boiler suit looking for all the world like some lonely farmer's night-time companion. This was to be done without discovery by "the enemy"; the officers, wandering around with torches. We were given one location for this weary rural lady of the night, the girls were given a second location with a second boiler suit at the end.

Unknown to us, of course, the officers had decided to take the piss by sticking a walkie-talkie down the pilot's jumpsuit in the girl's scenario. The idea, apparently, was to give them a nice little shock when they found it.

End result: after 30 minutes of ducking and prowling through the undergrowth, falling into patches of nettles, getting liberally smeared with mud and failing to realise that legging it really really fast between two trees makes you more visible rather than less, we get to the "pilot". We creep forward, wary for some sort of last-minute trap...and the pilot emits this Cthulian howl of pure terror right into our primitive male hindbrains.

It later turned out that the officers had fucked up giving out the coordinates on the map and sent us to the girls' pilot. It also turned out that 10 Hard Men, presented with a wailing wheat banshee at 2am, will simultaneously shit themselves in public.
(, Sun 3 Jun 2012, 14:46, 6 replies)
What is it good for?

(, Sun 3 Jun 2012, 11:05, 7 replies)
War never changes...
(, Sun 3 Jun 2012, 10:50, 2 replies)
Hiking holiday in Azerbaijan a few years ago
I foolishly went walking alone one evening, and a local kid tried to rob me, pointing his rifle at me; locals can't usually afford ammo, so a kid waving a gun at me, I assumed it was empty; I snatched it from him, angrily pointed it at his stomach, and then pantomimed pulled the trigger to give him a good scare.

Unfortunately, it was really loaded. I'd never used a rifle before and was holding it wrong, and my shoulder was bruised and hurt for weeks.
(, Sun 3 Jun 2012, 10:35, 3 replies)
Refreshing to see the dearth of
"Internet hardman" stories.
(, Sun 3 Jun 2012, 9:20, 8 replies)
I shall tell of the birth, tell how war appeared on earth.
Thunder and herbs, conjugated sacred verbs. Musicians with gongs fertilised an egg with song. She butted with her horn, split the egg and war was born. A miracle of hate, she banged her spoon against her plate.

Upon her spoon this motto, wonderfully designed: "violence completes the partial mind".
(, Sun 3 Jun 2012, 1:23, 3 replies)
Not mine.
Had to go trawling thru AB's little corner of b3ta to find it, thought it was relevant.
(, Sat 2 Jun 2012, 22:29, 6 replies)
I've never been a violent person but being six foot and fourteen stone since I was 13 I've had my fair share of unwanted attention.
Day in and day out this annoying twat of a 2nd year classmate would come and repeatedly punch me on the arm. I do realise now it was a misplaced declaration of his love for me, but at the time it was just plain fucking annoying. One day, sporting a particularly nice bruise on my shoulder he sat behind me in physics and started to wail on my arm. uttering the phrase "Do that again and I'll break your nose" he did it again. The next thing I know is that my arm is outstretched and twatboy rocks backward in his chair and sits bolt upright again. After a millisecond of eye contact between us he looks down just in time to see his nose explode in a waterfall of blood all over the desk. The net result of my sudden burst of masculinity? A week of detention but complete immunity and respect from the hardest bastards at the school. The lesson we were learning in Physics? Newton's Third Law of Action-Reaction !
(, Sat 2 Jun 2012, 21:53, 1 reply)
For RabiedRooster (posted below)...a b3ta double-time marching chant... feel free to add a verse...
Come on mate get with the times
Think next time when posting rhymes

Your ignorance is here on show
It's Inuit, not Eskimo.

I don't know, I've heard it said
Her pussy's cold because she's dead.

RabiedRooster's high on crack,
He's a Necrophiliac.

He fucks girlies when theye're dead
Drags them to his cum-stained bed

When he's blown his load inside
He chops them up and eats them fried

So next time when you post a rhyme.
Keep the syllables in time

Boom chugga chugga chugga
Boom chugga chugga chugga
(, Sat 2 Jun 2012, 12:11, 1 reply)
Not me but the wife
I've fired a gun and I've been in a fight (didn't do so well on either occasion) but I've never got as near to war as my missus.
A few years back she took a holiday in Sri Lanka and spent an enjoyable ten days doing all kinds of touristy things.
Tired and ready to go home, she rocked up at the airport and was sitting in departure as pandemonium broke out around her. People started running around and announcements were blaring. She looked out of the window in time to see the plane she was due to board erupt in flames as a mortar from the Tamil Tigers hit it's target.
All the tourists were quickly ushered away, occasionally having to take cover as bullets whizzed over head. Apparently being herded by a very panicked man with broken English, whilst small arms fire zips above your head and mortars rain down is not a pleasant experience.
Eventually they reach safety she calms down enough to notice that there is a bar. "A drink will calm me down" she thinks, and so orders herself a large gin. The bar man limps over to serve her, a bloody bandage wrapped around his thigh. I hope in a state of shock rather than stupidity she asks him what happened. He makes the universal sign of the pistol with his fingers to explain, obviously, he's been shot.
To make matters worse, there is a total communication black out. No one is allowed to make phone calls so she can't phone any one at home to tell them what's happening. At this point, her friends have all found out that there has been an attack and are phoning her rather distraught mum to see if she's ok.
Eventually they are allowed to call home and are ushered onto another plane to head home. Relief washes over the passengers as they realise they're going home to safety, until they look out of the windows to see armed men checking the underside of planes for bombs that may have been planted by the Tigers.
I think they drank the plane dry on the way home.

(, Sat 2 Jun 2012, 10:56, Reply)
My Granddad was on the beaches at Normandy.
Amid the sound of the sea and the screams and cries of those around him, he used his bayonet to gut three Germans. He watched as their blood spilled over the sand, giving the water a pink tinge before it washed out to sea again, these three guys screaming all the while, desperately trying to hold their intestines in.
But as this was a SAGA holiday last year, they gave him a life sentence.
(, Sat 2 Jun 2012, 4:34, 4 replies)
Beer and guns, no moral, what was I thinking?
In the navy, and playing with guns was part of the job, however, I came into possession of a semi automatic hand gun and some (fortunately) blank ammo.
being heavily into my alcohol at that time, it seemed natural to take the gun to the pub, where as the night went on it went from only me knowing I had the gun to half the damn pub knowing. Things are vey blurry, but I can clearly remember the pub landlord, John, a perma-soused paddy spotting the hulking figure of 'black Dave' through the frosted pub glass, running out, jamming the gun into his stomach and firing it, he came back in waving the smoking gun and proclaiming " I got me first black one!"
I've never seen a black guy turn white before, but black Dave was a whiter shade of pale to be sure, his jacket was marked and smoking and he said he though he was dead for sure
The evening culminated with me standing facing a phone box in which stood a fellow member of the navy against whom I had a grudge for reasons that no longer come to mind, I stood there on the darkened street with my legs spread and the gun held in both hands, pointing the gun at him until he eventually turned around, saw me, and then (comedy style) tried to get out of the phone box by pushing the wrong wall.
I loosed off half a dozen shots and saw his pants darken, and then ran down the street hooting with laughter, the rest of the evening is lost to alcohol sadly, other than a vague recollection of more shooting imna church yard.

Some things related to that evening came to light later and I spent a little time in RNDQs in Portsmouth, the naval prison (Royal Naval Detention Quarters) to think about what I had done.

In retrospect, I got off lightly, as about this time, the IRA were still active on the mainland, and gunfire in a naval town should have drawn a rapid response team. I'm lucky I didn't get shot dead by some twitchy fingered copper.

Length............ twenty eight days, with a day off for good behaviour.....
(, Fri 1 Jun 2012, 22:05, 8 replies)
Me and my bro were on our way through LA to NY and then on to Brazil. We'd got some studio audience tickets outside Mann's Chinese Theatre and walked up Sunset to check it out. My brother was filming sidewalk stars with a super-8 camera he had in a duffel bag. He fell behind a bit. The lights said 'walk' with him 50 metres behind me. I screamed out to him, he began running (while stuffing his camera into his bag) the 3 african-american gentleman halfway across the road heard me yell, and saw a guy running at them 'pulling a gun from his bag' -- so all 3 pulled guns on us... We froze. My bro - hands in the air screamed 'it's a camera!'A standoff. We shat our panties. After a pause they turned and walked away. Ba-Jeeeebers!
(, Fri 1 Jun 2012, 21:19, 2 replies)
I remember the exact moment when I decided I didn't want to work in the foreign press corps
It was when I examined the plaster mouldings in the hotel reception in central Brazzaville to discover they weren't delicate plaster mouldings, and that they were - in fact - very recent rocket-propelled grenade scars. And the red pattern on the marble floor wasn't a red pattern on the marble floor.

Then I had all my kit nicked.

Then I got trapped there for a week in the company of the Congolese army, the wives and girlfriends of the Congolese army, and a Belgian chef.

Then I had to take on hired goons so I could go out and buy clothes and food, before being told by the embassy not to go out and buy clothes and food, and what the fuck was I doing there in the first place?

Then I had to draw my own porn because the shop ran out.

Then I got beaten up and robbed by the militia at the airport (who were subsequently all KILLED TO DEATH, but not by me).

Still, you've gotta laugh
(, Fri 1 Jun 2012, 17:20, 5 replies)
More Combined Cadet Force
Inspired by Albert Marshmallow's tale of derring-do, I thought I'd share mine.

I went into the Army Cadets (where the real men went, according to school legend), rather than the asthmatic pigeon-toed weeds who went into the RAF cadets. Or the sons of pacifists who played triangle for the school orchestra.

The first term was pretty dull, with lots of square bashing drill, but the following spring we went to the assault course in Sennybridge and did about a half a mile of it, which was good muddy, freezing cold, wet fun. Less fun was the chain-smoking Selwyn Frogett-alike in the vest that made John McClane's look like it had been freshly laundered, who managed to give six of us amoebic dysentery. (Though the bit of the assault course that meant swimming in the dark down a stretch of river that passed through a submerged drainage tunnel, along with god knows how much rat piss and sheepshit can't have helped.)

I was the first to come down with it, vomiting through the night from my bottom bunk into a rusty bucket, a routine broken only by the half-hourly dash to the bogs to pebble dash the porcelain. This being just cadets, one of the officers (i.e. one of our school teachers) phone my parents to come and get me, and I spend most of the following morning dozing in the passenger seat of my dad's car half-listening to Dave Lee Travis's bullshit radio 1 show.

Adventurous training and leading the signals section followed later, which I'll post about if I can be arsed.
(, Fri 1 Jun 2012, 15:46, Reply)
Make love, not war
Or, failing love, a quick shag. Office Christmas night out in Newcastle upon Tyne a few years ago...

All four of us are worse for wear by about 11. My business partner (not a big drinker) is passed out on a bar stool, but me and the two guys we had working for us at the time are still upright and drinking.

So, it gets to that point in the night where sambuca seems like a fantastic idea, and I order 4 shots. Thinking my balance is currently somewhat impaired by alcohol, I decide to take the shots back to our corner in relays of 2 to prevent flavouring the carpet again.

On returning to the bar, there are 2 empty sambuca shot glasses left, and 3 rather smug, lanky bastards standing next to them. I ask the barman who drank them (I was gone for a maximum of 30 seconds), and he just shrugs and walks off. So, I decide the next course of action is to challenge them. They all flat out deny it, and there follows a heated argument including frequent claims from both sides about the marital status of the respective parents.

After much heated discussion and threats to "take this outside" (it's OK, I think I could run faster than they could), we get talking, and find they're apprentice joiners from Sunderland, and we end up playing pool with them.

This point would be a good one to say that one of the guys - we'll call him Noah for comedy value - we had working for us was gay. Noah was 35, shortish but fairly muscle-bound.

As the game of pool descended in to swearing at the quiz machine, we glanced back to see Noah snogging this 18 year old apprentice like a leaky dishwasher. I happened to lived with Noah at the time, and as they disappeared home to make sweet, sweet manly love at the flat, I stayed out for a few more hours to give my flatmate some space.

Funniest thing of it all was the gay apprentice's mates locked in stunned silence for 10 minutes after the snog, after which they only seemed to be able to say "we never knew he was gay"!

And yes, it probably was them who drank the shots, the thieving Mackem scumbags ;)

tl;dr: a half-arsed bar argument turned in to a night of man-on-man passion right before my very eyes.
(, Fri 1 Jun 2012, 15:22, 3 replies)
My dad fought in World War 2.
He would often regale us with all his old stories, a bit like Uncle Albert in Only Fools and Horses, and as I was growing up I did find them rather tedious. (I do now realise that I should have been proud of what he did, of course.)
One thing always made me laugh though. In his later years, whenever there would be a documentary on telly and Adolf Hitler would appear, my dad would always, without fail, lift up his hand, give an extravagant V-sign and blow a raspberry.
I miss him.
(, Fri 1 Jun 2012, 14:56, 2 replies)

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