Wishing in RPGs, military orders

[Keith&Co.]

In role playing games, the game master is trying to tell you a story. Lost princess, lost prince, monster, treasure, war, quest, or barroom brawl. You tell him your characters story within the bigger story.
There's an odd part, though, where wishes are involved.
You're going to expend reality-altering magic to effect change IAW your spoken word.
This event usually (alway, in my experience) causes the GM to become schizophrenic. Part of his brain becomes a thesaurus. Part becomes a grammar nazi. Part is dedicated to sentence diagramming. The sole purpose of this team is to grant your widh in the least useful manner.

Wish the evil wizard dead? You fall asleep for 50 years, waking up at the wizard's funeral.

Wish for your weight in treasure? Your party mage sneezes and accidentally casts a Feather Fall spell on you, and you now weigh less than the single silver coin that appears.

Wish, in excruciating detail, for very exact benefits, with specific time requirements, space limitations defined, so clear that an orc couldn't minuderstand the intent, and the Genie will later insist that 'gold' is a color, as well as a metal, so the deep-fried chicken medallions ARE the 'gold(en)' coins you asked for.

This, it turns out, originates in the same part of the brain as that used when following the orders of an officer who has pissed you off.

I was reminded of a night when i had the evening watch and something broke in a missile. I was Fire Control. The missile wasn't my equipment, i had no expertise to assist, i stayed on my side of the room while they discussed the problem. Nothing to do with me.
They eventually decided what the solution was going to be. The man-in-charge turned to me. "You're weapons yeoman, type that up as a local procedure."
Oh. Whoops. Well, it's about midnight, everyone's waiting on this solution, i had better get it right the first time. So, i ask for details.
Which ones?
Um...all...of them?

He lost it. Two inches from my face, he screams, "Write a local fucking procedure to fucking put the fucking wrench on the fucking stuck bolt and fucking-" and on and on, the whole fix. Then he stormed out to tell the captain what they were going to do. The Launcher watch offered to write it up for me.
No. I have...a better idea.

Local Ducking Procedure USS Maryland # 93-008
Step Fucking 1. Fucking take the fucking wrench to Missile compartment upper fucking level.
Step Fucking 2. Apply fucking wrench to the stuck fucking bolt.
Step Fucking 3. IAW the fucking torque restrictions for the installation of...

...and return to original fucking Weapons Procedure.

Weapons Fucking Officer signature: ___________
Commanding Fucking Officer signature:__________

Print. CTRL H, replace all "fucking" with " ". Print.

Just as i got the second printout, he came back. "You got my local fucking procedure, yet?"
"As a matter of fact, here's your local fucking procedure!"
He snatched it and went towards the captain's stateroom. Got about ten feet down the passageway before he screamed.
Came stomping back. "You may prefer a local procedure," i said, handing him the second.

It's hard to put someone on report for doing exactly what you told them to do. Sure, i was insubordinate. But if he wrote me up, HE was going to have to explain to the CO why he gave me the order in the first place.

He laughed about it. Eight months later. After he left The Maryland. All i could say was he never, ever swore at me again.

I heard a guy at his next command say that he was telling the story and getting all kinds of laughs. A little spin, though Apparently in the telling, i was so scared of his screaming i thought he wanted it that way.

 

[Keith&Co.]

One division officer was upset that we were not telling him enough about the division work schedule. So he ordered us to tell him EVERYTHING. Made us all pinky-swear like sixth graders to keep him up to date on divisional business.
We scheduled all maintenance for his sleepy-time. Woke him to ssy we were starting the monthly lamp test. Then stared until he said, "Very well."
Came back ten minutes later. Reported we found one lamp burnt out. Then stared at him. "Um, did you replace it?"
"Oh! Good idea!"
Came back five minutes later. "That fixed it, sir!"
"Very well."
"We're scheduled to start the Door Open test next, if that's okay."
Ten minutes later, "It passed!"

Three days of this before he got us together. "I didn't mean, everything."
"You said."
"I know, but-"
"You said!"
"I meant for you guys to use your judgment."
"You should have said that."


The two worst things a subordinate can tell a superior:
1 That's what you told me to do.
2. You didn't tell me to do that.

 

[bigfield]

Sometimes I wonder how the universe could be so cruel as to give us bosses.

And then I'm reminded that the universe gave bosses people like you, just to balance things out.

 

[Keith&Co.]

When i was at Sub School, our cafeteria was halfway up a hill. The officer barracks was at the top of the hill. Basic Officer Sub School was at the bottom of the hill. Every week, they would class up another unit, and a new set of junior officers would be riding their bikes down the hill. One arm would be holding a huge stack of books for the school.
We'd leave breakfast and walk along that road, saluting.
The rule is, you return salutes.
If your right hand isn't free, you can salute with your left.
If both hands are occupied, you can nod.
Senior officers just nod.

Very junior officers, fresh out of leadership courses, have not acquired the knack.
Every Monday, just about half the officers would let go of the handlebars to return the salute...and crash.
Just about half would use the left hand, dumping their tech manuals on the road. Which made them crash.

Wednesday was about when the complaints would filter thru the two chains of command, and our instructor would try to carefully say, "do not salute the JOs" without quite SAYING to not salute the JOs. Because he'd be next to us at mast, "but PO Fury TOLD us..."

By Wednesday, they had crashed enough they would just nod, anyway, so the game was over.
Until the next class formed up.

 

[Loren Pechtel]

In role playing games, the game master is trying to tell you a story. Lost princess, lost prince, monster, treasure, war, quest, or barroom brawl. You tell him your characters story within the bigger story.
There's an odd part, though, where wishes are involved.
You're going to expend reality-altering magic to effect change IAW your spoken word.
This event usually (alway, in my experience) causes the GM to become schizophrenic. Part of his brain becomes a thesaurus. Part becomes a grammar nazi. Part is dedicated to sentence diagramming. The sole purpose of this team is to grant your widh in the least useful manner.

Wish the evil wizard dead? You fall asleep for 50 years, waking up at the wizard's funeral.

Wish for your weight in treasure? Your party mage sneezes and accidentally casts a Feather Fall spell on you, and you now weigh less than the single silver coin that appears.

Wish, in excruciating detail, for very exact benefits, with specific time requirements, space limitations defined, so clear that an orc couldn't minuderstand the intent, and the Genie will later insist that 'gold' is a color, as well as a metal, so the deep-fried chicken medallions ARE the 'gold(en)' coins you asked for.

This, it turns out, originates in the same part of the brain as that used when following the orders of an officer who has pissed you off.

I was reminded of a night when i had the evening watch and something broke in a missile. I was Fire Control. The missile wasn't my equipment, i had no expertise to assist, i stayed on my side of the room while they discussed the problem. Nothing to do with me.
They eventually decided what the solution was going to be. The man-in-charge turned to me. "You're weapons yeoman, type that up as a local procedure."
Oh. Whoops. Well, it's about midnight, everyone's waiting on this solution, i had better get it right the first time. So, i ask for details.
Which ones?
Um...all...of them?

He lost it. Two inches from my face, he screams, "Write a local fucking procedure to fucking put the fucking wrench on the fucking stuck bolt and fucking-" and on and on, the whole fix. Then he stormed out to tell the captain what they were going to do. The Launcher watch offered to write it up for me.
No. I have...a better idea.

Local Ducking Procedure USS Maryland # 93-008
Step Fucking 1. Fucking take the fucking wrench to Missile compartment upper fucking level.
Step Fucking 2. Apply fucking wrench to the stuck fucking bolt.
Step Fucking 3. IAW the fucking torque restrictions for the installation of...

...and return to original fucking Weapons Procedure.

Weapons Fucking Officer signature: ___________
Commanding Fucking Officer signature:__________

Print. CTRL H, replace all "fucking" with " ". Print.

Just as i got the second printout, he came back. "You got my local fucking procedure, yet?"
"As a matter of fact, here's your local fucking procedure!"
He snatched it and went towards the captain's stateroom. Got about ten feet down the passageway before he screamed.
Came stomping back. "You may prefer a local procedure," i said, handing him the second.

It's hard to put someone on report for doing exactly what you told them to do. Sure, i was insubordinate. But if he wrote me up, HE was going to have to explain to the CO why he gave me the order in the first place.

He laughed about it. Eight months later. After he left The Maryland. All i could say was he never, ever swore at me again.

I heard a guy at his next command say that he was telling the story and getting all kinds of laughs. A little spin, though Apparently in the telling, i was so scared of his screaming i thought he wanted it that way.

It sounds like this is a procedure to apply to a SLBM. If so, I think the use of "fucking" is proper as if you mess up too badly you're going to be fucked.

 

[Keith&Co.]

It sounds like this is a procedure to apply to a SLBM. If so, I think the use of "fucking" is proper as if you mess up too badly you're going to be fucked.

Accurate, but if that's the basis, then instead of modifying the fucking wrench, it should fucking modify the verb. Maybe the adverb.

Precisely fucking place the wrench....
Very fucking precisely place the wrench...
Step Fucking 12) Don't you fucking dare drop the wrench...

And, yeah, a D5 missile was the centerpiece in the evolution.
But, you know, lots of things on the boat can fuck you. This just had a better chance of fucking up LOTS of people's day. All the lots.

 

[Keith&Co.]

Not quite the same thing, was just reminded of one night on a shore tour. I had the phone watch. The duty chief cane by and said colors had not gone down at sunset.
This happened a lot while i was at SWFLANT so i explained. It had been raining on and off all day, and a thunderstorm during the time for lowering the flag. I did not feel like grabbing the wet rope wrapped around the metal flagpole during a thunderstorm. I took the watch, and when i was relieved at midnight, i'd take the flag down and stretch it out in a conference room to dry. We'd fold it for the next duty section to have morning colors.
Worked every time.

Chief insisted that colors had to go down now. Now! Well, i was the only one there and i could not leave the phone. So.........midnight?

"Then I guess I'll do it myself!" he snaps, storming out. The front door was about 8 feet from my desk.
Just as he opened the door, lightning struck the tree across the parking lot. FA-BOOM!
He slid down the linoleum on his ass, coming to a stop just short of my desk.
I let the thunder rumble away, then said, "Or, i can do it at midnight."
"Yeah,"he said. "Good idea."

I mean, wow, i almost never get visual aids for my "what's the worst that could happen?" speculation...

 

[Keith&Co.]

Probably more common than insubordination-by-obedience is silence.

One of the last things we do topside, before we dive, we tighten down every fitting. Roll cleats, close hatches, and bolt them firmly so there's no loose bits to rattle when we're at high speeds.
A commissioned officer does the final check. He whales on every piece with a rubber mallet, see if they rattle. This is always the juniorest officer aboard, because no one else wants to don the no-fall-overboard safety gear.
Strangely, no one in sub school taught them how to do this. So they show up, ignorant. They have to either ask the line handlers how to do it, or just assume that they're smarter than a hammer.

Admittedly, there's not MUCH to it. You swing the mallet, does it go THUD or Twacka-acka-ack.

But there is an important nugget of info they probably lack. Out of 16 patrols, probably 100+ underways, i got to watch them swing that like Thor's hammer, whanging on the Frost Cleat. Three times in all those, i have seen the rubber mallet bounce back so hard it knocked the officer unconscious.
And of course, we scramble for the mallet, there's only one in the topside bag.
It's almost a ritual.
"So, i just hit it, right?"
"Yes, sir, hard as you can."
"I don't want to break anything."
"It's 3 lbs of rubber versus 8 inches of steel, sir, knock yourself out."

....and he did.

 

[Keith&Co.]

Standing watch on the quarterdeck of the tender.
We're parked in Holy Loch a ways above Glasgow.
I screw up. Small mistake. The OOD, Officer Of the Deck, turns on me and dresses me down. Way too much, in my opinion, for that mistake.
Then she orders me to read the Captain's standing orders so i won't screw up again.
While I'm doing that, the RAF buzzed the site. They were always zooming by the nuclear submarine base, there. The OOD jumps at the sudden noise, then relaxes.
I had JUST read that standing order, so i asked, "Are you going to log that?"
"Huh?" I showed her. The CO commanded that for any airplane overflying the tender, log the time, altitude, heading, nationality, and model, or as much as could be determined.
She got a little flustered but started the log entry.
I had to tell her the direction it was flying. By reading the compass she was leaning on. I guessed at the altitude, because, you know, bubblehead. If it's higher than the sail, i don't care anymore.
It had to be RAF, because what the hell else buzzes US ships in Scotland?
Then she asked what type of plane it was.
I made a model of a Harrier in high school, so i knew, but it was just too tempting. I said, Messerschmitt. If she didn't buy it, i'd claim a total lack of airplane identification training in my pipeline.

She logged it. No pause for critical reflection of the wisdom in trusting someone you just dresssed down.

 

[Keith&Co.]

Special Projects runs the nuclear missile Navy different from the rest. Most of our specialized parts are not consumables, they're rotated back to the vendors for refurbishment. So, one breaks, i order new from supply, and turnnthe old one in for return.

One patrol, a supply Senior Chief had discovered how much money sub sailors got for riding on subs. After most of a career on Aircraft Carriers, he was on the Carver, a boomer sub.
During refit, we replaced a faulty module. It was about $700, but that was funny-money because SP already paid for it. I took it back to supply, knowing it was a mandatory turn-in.
SKCS didn't want the part. Showed me the part of the stock number that meant 'consumable.'
I insisted that for SP parts, that code was different. He insisted he'd been doing this for (i dunno, 16?) years and the C at that block meant what it meant. In his defense, he'd never, ever worked with nuclear weapons. To his blame, he never thought anyone else had ever worked with NWs.
So, i tossed the module in my locker, knowing he would want it eventually. For the rest of refit, i always brought the turn-ins back. He always called me an unteachable idiot. Into patrol, i had a few thousand dollars of parts in my locker, including a $3000 power supply.

Every time, he told me to throw them away.

Two weeks underway, he gets a message saying supply is looking for mandatory turn-ins, and an itemized list, with dollar amounts. $5000 before the power supply broke.

He comes straight to me, sweating, asking about the missing parts. "Dude, you told me to throw them away. Every single time. C means consumable."

"But if the MCC code is a two, then the C means RESTOCK! You should know this!"
Point of order, HE should know this. It was his job. I told him this, but he should have told me.
Anyway, i did not SAY that i threw them out, i just kept quoting him. "You told me they were trash." He stormed out, threatening to write me up for destruction of govt. property.

I had briefed my LPO on what was going on, and my division officer, and the Weapons officer. So when the Senior Chief or the Supply Officer tried to suggest i was at fault, they all knew, "But you(r guy) TOLD him to, didn't he?"

Just about then, i dropped my Walkman. Fell two decks. Smashed to a zillion pieces. I put the less-identifiable electronic parts in a plastic bag.
"Hey, Senior! I found one of the modules!" He did not recieve the part with the enthusiasm one would expect....

Of course, all message traffic goes thru the captain. A week after finding tgat he or his command owed $'s, he had not seen any reply being sent off, and asked the Supply Officer what was going on. Before he could tell his side, Weps explained. Game over.

 

[Keith&Co.]

Thought about this story, today.
Someone in the parking lot told me i look stupid with a mask on. He took his off the instant he left the store. I wore mine all the way to the car.

In 1987, i rotated to shore command, being sent to Instructor School before reporting to the school i'd be teaching at.
A couple weeks before we classed up, a student at an electrician school in Great Lakes was failing out. He did not want to be sent to wherever that school sent failures. My schools sent people to be yeomen, others made their exstudents boatswains mates, undesignated airmen, master-at-arms...it varies. Oh, and the nuclear power pipeline sent 'nuke waste' to my school....

The kid stressed about it so much, his last day at the school, he went in and shot up the instructors' office. I forget the numbers of dead/wounded, but there were both.

So, first day of IT school, we're halfway through the introduction when someone threw a grenade down the middle of the classroom. The moment i recognized it, thought "failed electrician!", and threw myself to the floor. Started crawling to the door.
Across the room, a Marine corporal saw it, stood, aimed himself at the window, ready to jump out. A Marine sargeant grabbed the corporal, threw him bodily onto the grenade, turned to the window. The Marine LT garrbed Sarge, threw him onto the corporal, dropped to the floor.

No one else moved.

After a few seconds, the training aid did not go off. The LT stood, addressed the class, pointed to the guys getting up from the floor. "Marines are trained to protect their superiors." Got a laugh. Some surly looks from his fellow Marines.

I got up, dusted off my dress blues, walked to my desk. Everyone laughed at me. "It was obviously a fake!"
"Well, if i was wrong, i got dirty. You got a laugh. Iif YOU were wrong, i got dirty, you got killed."

Thought about that in the parking lot. "If i don't need the mask, and wear it, i may look stupid. If i need the mask, but don't wear it, i look really stupid with a ventilator."

 

[Patooka]

Looking stupid is preferable to being moronic. The co-founder of TPUSA proved that very recently.

 

[Keith&Co.]

I joined the Navy in 1980. Made it to 1982 before i needed sickcall.
By then i was on a sub, and my crew was in port at the time.
Woke up one morning, threw up, called the off-crew office, said i was too sick, not coming in. The guy on the phone said okay.
Got called back by my chief. This is not how we do things in the Navy. I need to be certified sick to be sick.

So, hsuled my ass in to Medical, pulling over twice to throw up.
Doc took one look at me, "You should be in bed!" Gave me a chit to be out of office for two days.
I went to the office and showed the chit to my chief. To my division officer. To my department head. To the duty section leader as i was going to miss a day of duty. Ran to the head and threw up. Saw the XO there, showed him the chit.

Went home, slept and threw up for two days.

Third day, back in the office.
Half the fucking crew called in sick, including my chief, div O, dept head, XO, the section leader... they had to call in because Doc was too sick to hold sickcall.

Can't imagine why i keep thinking of that day. All week, been thinking about that day.

 

[athee]

the 'being literal' is almost like the replies I give my wife on occasion.

- Would you pass me the spoon?
= Yes, I would.

- Could you pass me the spoon?
= Yes, I could

- Pass me the fucking spoon
= No need to be mean. A please would be nice as well.

 

[Keith&Co.]

A bazillion years ago, i was on my fourth patrol. During refit, while we were tied up to the pier,someone made a trip to yhe store. I asked for Coke. They got me a sixpack of Pepsi.
Threw it into my locker. Bleh. Had No Use for that stuff, at all.
Two months later, they had nothing but Coke products on the mess decks. Usually there's a balance, but oops.
During the movie, the ship's yeoman says he'd give basket leave to anyone find him a can of Pepsi.
We earned 30 days paid leave each year. 2.5 days/month. Basket Leave is this mythical state of taking leave, but not having them counted against your acquired balance. Everyone else had or knew someone who had gotten BL on the previous command. OR they told stories of guys trying to take it, getting caught, punished.

I had about 20 days leave banked at the time. I could afford to go home for xmas, and if they charged me, fine, if they didn't charge me, double fine. I just got room in my locker again.

The Executive Officer held training just before we pulled in. Leave dates, training schedule for off crew, qualifications to be recertified before we left the boat. Then he gleefully announced a new change to leave policy.
They had eliminated Basket Leave!

Seems that JUST when i might finally take advantage of this perk, they had impossibled it. But it did't really affect my plans.
I went, visited, partied, came back after the new year.
The XO was standing in the yeoman's office, watching people check in.
Gradie took my leave paper, noted the date/time of my return, logged me back onto the crew, collected some forms, and with the XO watching closely, handed it all to me. I was instructed, "Take this over to BasePersonnel. All of it (wink). Only the BasePersonnel office can reimburse you for your leave rations."

Leave rats was the amount of money the Navy was silling to spend to pay for my food while i was galivanting around. IIRC it was about $5.35/day. Gradie continued, XO smiling wide at his elbow. "If you DON'T TURN THIS IN, to BasePersonnel, they won't pay you leave rats. If you DON'T TURN THIS IN, they also won't properly credit your leave balance for the 2.5 days you earned this month."
"Wouldn't want that," i said. Took the documents. Told the chief i hadda go do paperwork. Got in the car, drove off base, had lunch at a drive thru, spent the meal tearing the paperwork up into tiny pieces and tossing it in the Taco Bell dumpster. No one ever processed my leave. When i got stationed to a command in Scotland, i arrived with 60 days on the books, i was throwing leave chits left and right.


Two other sailors checked in the same day i did, also promised basket leave. One did not catch the wink-wink, turned the paperwork in, lost all his leave. Sad.

The other idiot took two steps out the office door, dumped the papers in the trash can that sat between the yeoman's door and the XOs office. Papers were found. XO did not suspect any sort of chicanery, just thought the enlisted man was too stupid to follow instructions as complicated as "turn this in." Had the Chief do it.

 

[Keith&Co.]

Elixir reminded me in another thread....

They could say "dust to dust", then flick something off their sleeve.

When The Franklin was the Battle E boat (basically boat-of-the-year), we were selected to commit someone's ashes to the sea. Mid-patrol, we surfaced, certain people went up the conning tower, and they announced, "All hands, maintain a moment of silence about the ship while..." etc.

Suddenly all the dust precipitators in the ventilation system started cracking like angry popcorn. It was a common practice that when we surfaced, we ventilated. Sucked some fresh air into the sub. No one thought twice about running the diesel with the air intake ten feet aft of where they were consigning mortal remains to eternal rest.

The OOD (who decided to run the diesel) was devout. For a month, you could pretty much make him cry by saying, 'ashes to ashes' as he went past.
Or "Dust to...um, sweepers, sweepers, man your brooms."

 

[Keith&Co.]

We usually had about 14 officers on a patrol. Once, we deployed with19, for some reason. The extras slept in the missile compartment.
A few were, if not respectful of enlisted men aboard, they at least didn't treat us like galley slaves. One, though, really thought anyone smart enough to be an officer would naturally have become an officer. So any enlisted was too stupid to finish college for a degree. He acted accordingly.

One day, the rover saw this fop entering the missile compartment head with his electric razor. Minutes later, the Launcher watch (in control of the compartment) announced, "THE ELECTRIC RAZOR LAMP IS OUT THROUGHOUT THE MISSILE COMPARTMENT WHILE DRYING AND DH-ING TUBES."
Rover thdn knocked on the door to the head, 'gentle reminder, razor lamp is out.' The ensign stopped shaving half-way through, put the razor in his bunk, wandered out.

I heard the announcement. Had no idea what the fuck it meant. Told the guy next to me, 'there's a story, there.' Then went to the lounge.

This officer shows up, recognizes me as a weaponeer. Sits down by me. "Hey, why is the razor lamp out in the MC?"
Half a face of stubble...this is the story, i realize.
"Are they DeHumidifying?"
"They're drying..." he replied.
"Well, there you go." I went back to my book, thinking furiously. He pressed for a why.
"Okay, well, [truth]to dry and dehumidify a missile tube, they pump warm dry air into the tube. It sits there for a bit, evaporating any water collected on the missile, or in the tube. Then they vent the air off, and it carries the humid air out, where the ship's ventilation can scrub it. Okay?" He nodded. [/truth]
[Bullshit]"Now, when we do that, tiny particles of the rocket motor are carried out in the air. And they float like dust particles. Just hang in the air. If you breathe them in, you'll breathe them back out. If you're smoking, you'll hear little pops in the cigarette."
"Oh, yeah, heard those."
"Yezh, it's mostly harmless. But rotating blades on an electric shaver? Those spin fast enough they drive the particles INTO YOUR SKIN. You get these little blue freckles. And if you get too many, your face becomes an explosive hazard."[/Bullshit]
'Oh, wow. Thanks."
Captain saw him 20 minutes later, asked why he had only shaved half his face. "So my cheeks don't explode!"
I was told the Old Man stared at him for 30 seconds, then said, "alright."

 

[ZiprHead]

You are a mean little man.

 

[Keith&Co.]

You are a mean little man.

Thanks!

 

[hyzer]

You are a mean little man.

Thanks!

But the real beauty of this story is how you just went with the set up . . . and carried it home.