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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Flash / Mini / Very Short
- Published: 09/05/2020
Like a Minefield
While my hobby is story writing, my real-world job as a Stormwater Engineer requires me to spend time in the field inspecting pipes, ditches, and lakes. Sometimes, my work provides interesting events that inspire new stories. This is a tale of most unusual circumstances that spun unexpectedly from what started as a normal workday.
One day a fellow engineer, Andy, a Base Representative, Bryan, and I were inspecting a channel at the end of a runway on an unnamed military base. Bryan had obtained reluctant permission to shut down the runway for us to make our inspection. We were told to get in and out in short order. They needed it opened back up as soon as possible.
As we walked beside the runway, I noticed blue plastic fragments up to an inch in size scattered in the dirt every few feet but didn’t think much about them. I was used to seeing unfamiliar items on military bases and knew to ignore them. In the back of my mind, I noticed more blue chips the farther we hiked from the runway.
After a while, Andy pointed and asked, “What are all of these blue things?”
“Don’t worry about them,” Bryan said. “They’re nothing.”
Okay. I didn’t worry about them and kept walking along the ditch looking for hidden pipes.
“Look at this,” Andy said a few minutes later, pointing between his feet.
Bryan and I walked to him and looked at a blue cylinder of the same kind of plastic buried halfway under grass and dirt. Though I knew not to touch anything strange on a military base, Bryan nonchalantly reached down and dug the mysterious object out of the ground. Warning lights went off in my head when he showed us a 2½” long by 1½” diameter round of ammunition, much larger than any rifle bullet. Maybe something from a Terminator movie. Bryan captured our undivided attention.
“Don’t move,” he said and gently placed the oversized projectile back onto the ground. “This ammunition isn’t supposed to be here.”
Neither was I.
“Now move away,” Bryan said. “Look behind you and make sure you don’t step on any of these rounds. Try to walk back to the runway.”
I stepped into the Twilight Zone. Now that I looked around more intensely, large and small pieces of blue ammunition lay scattered around us. Carefully we backed away from the whole shell.
After three steps backward, Bryan softly said, “Stop, Gordon.”
I froze in mid-step with my foot in midair. No way I was moving. I’d stay on one foot all day if he told me to.
He carefully dug up another whole shell behind me, then said, “You can put your foot down now.”
I slowly lowered my foot and gently put weight on it.
“Hey guys,” Andy said. “There are more whole shells between us and the runway.”
“Don’t take any more steps,” Bryan said.
That’s what they say in war movies. Damn. Gotta be cool. Think about fishing.
He made a call on his cell phone. After being transferred two times, he explained our situation to someone on his lunch break.
Andy’s eyes met mine. With a frown, I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head.
After a response, Bryan said, “Don’t tell me there’s no ammunition out here. I’m looking at numerous shells.”
So were Andy and me.
Another pause on the phone.
“I don’t care if shooting is unauthorized, we need help now. Not after your lunch. By the way, we have the runway shut down, so you better hurry.” He hung up. “Stay where you are. Someone’s on the way.”
He didn’t have to tell Andy and me not to move. Our feet were super glued to the ground for as long as it took. Bryan didn’t look concerned, so I forced myself to act cool.
“Andy, you’ve been around a lot. Have you ever run across this kind of problem?” I asked nonchalantly.
“Can’t say that I have,” he replied with an indifferent engineering voice like he was in a lab looking at a new specimen.
I changed the subject by talking to them about the ditch and our project in general. For ten minutes. I wish that guy would hurry up and get here. Taking advantage of our one on one time, I queried Bryan about upcoming services I might be able to provide for him. I hoped he felt sorry for me and would hand me another contract.
Twenty minutes later a vehicle pulled up to the end of the runway a hundred yards from us and a man in military clothing stepped out of his car. Mark called him on his phone and explained the situation. The soldier was a munitions specialist. He carefully walked to us, perusing the ground for blue shells. When he joined us, Andy and I listened as he talked to Bryan.
“What are these?” Bryan pointed to a whole shell near his foot.
“I told those helicopter gunners not to shoot over land.” He shook his head in frustration. “They don’t listen to me.”
Frigging wonderful I thought.
“But what are they?” Bryan asked again.
“Don’t worry, those are just tracer rounds from a helicopter’s 40 mm automatic grenade launcher. They flash but have no explosives.”
“Are these whole shells live?”
“Naw, those are duds. They were shot, but the tracer didn’t ignite. They’re like the lead from a bullet after it has been shot.”
“The plastic head is sealed with a metal base. Is tracer material still inside of it?” Bryan asked.
Andy and I turned our heads back and forth as they talked.
“Oh yes. Don’t open that shell or dangerous powder will spill out. I don’t think it will ignite.”
I’m not touching one of those. Much less opening it.
“What kind of powder?” I asked.
“Magnesium and other chemicals.”
“Isn’t Magnesium flammable?” asked Andy.
“Oh yes, that’s why they use it.”
“Can these shells still catch fire?” Bryan asked.
“Technically yes, but they need a primer to ignite them. They should be safe.”
Should is an iffy word.
“Could there be real rounds out here?” Bryan asked again.
“They shouldn’t have real ammo in these choppers.”
I’m getting tired of that iffy should word.
“Get us out of here,” Bryan said.
“Line up in a column and follow me out,” the munitions fellow said.
For ten agonizing minutes, we carefully followed him in slow motion, stepping in his footprints, like in a movie.
“Gordon and Andy,” Bryan said. “Remember to breathe.”
Right. I had been holding my breath. Ahead of me, sweat ran down the back of Andy’s neck.
Finally, we stepped onto the runway’s safety and left the Twilight Zone. What a relief. I now knew what being in a minefield was like – serious as hell.
The munitions officer said, “Ya’ll stay away from the end of our runways. When helicopters take off, the gunners fire a few tracer rounds for target practice.”
“Not to worry,” I said. “I’ll never inspect runways again.”
“Me neither,” Andy said.
“Now wasn’t that exciting?” Bryan laughed. “You should have seen your faces. You thought you were in a minefield and those were just duds.”
“I’m billing you double for hazard pay,” I said.
“No, you won’t. I got you out of trouble.”
We laughed nervously.
“Do you want a souvenir?” Bryan asked, holding out a blue grenade.
“It’s safe, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just don’t heat it up. And don’t be showing that around. Civilians aren’t supposed to have them.”
“Thanks. It will look cool on my desk.”
***
A few months later I was showing my grenade souvenir to a friend, Ron, at my house as my wife, Annie, cooked in the kitchen.
“Is this for real?” he asked, then twisted the blue plastic head off its metal base as he sat on my new white leather couch.
“Don’t,” I yelled.
Too late. Yellow powder spilled onto his lap, then rolled onto my couch.
“Freeze,” I said, taking the shell away from him.
I forced the blue head back onto the base to contain the rest of the yellow powder.
He stopped in shock.
“That’s flammable powder. I hope it doesn’t burn your crotch.”
“Do something,” he begged, looking between his legs with fear on his face.
“Don’t move.” A sledgehammer couldn’t move him.
I smirked. I wasn’t so much worried about burning Ron, but if I scorched our new couch, Annie would kill me. I tried to remember college chemistry. I knew pure phosphorus flamed terribly with water, but I wasn’t sure if magnesium was inert with water. I retrieved a wet rag to find out.
“Are you sure this is safe?” he asked.
“It’s magnesium. Remember school? Does it burn with water?”
“That was thirty years ago. You expect me to remember?”
“I think you’ll be okay. The military wouldn’t do anything dangerous.”
“You think?” He looked at me like I was crazy.
“I’m going to wipe it fast off your lap. If it ignites, jump up and take your pants off.”
“You’re kidding,” he said in disbelief.
“Here we go,” I said, and before he could object, I wiped the yellow powder from his lap with three quick flicks as he yelped. Nothing happened to his crotch.
“Get up. I have to clean that couch.”
I carefully wiped it down, greatly relieved no stains appeared.
“Ron, don’t tell Annie about this. I’ll really be in the doghouse.”
My military base inspection days are over, but I have that grenade on my desk as a souvenir, glued shut to prevent any more accidents.
Like a Minefield(Gordon England)
Like a Minefield
While my hobby is story writing, my real-world job as a Stormwater Engineer requires me to spend time in the field inspecting pipes, ditches, and lakes. Sometimes, my work provides interesting events that inspire new stories. This is a tale of most unusual circumstances that spun unexpectedly from what started as a normal workday.
One day a fellow engineer, Andy, a Base Representative, Bryan, and I were inspecting a channel at the end of a runway on an unnamed military base. Bryan had obtained reluctant permission to shut down the runway for us to make our inspection. We were told to get in and out in short order. They needed it opened back up as soon as possible.
As we walked beside the runway, I noticed blue plastic fragments up to an inch in size scattered in the dirt every few feet but didn’t think much about them. I was used to seeing unfamiliar items on military bases and knew to ignore them. In the back of my mind, I noticed more blue chips the farther we hiked from the runway.
After a while, Andy pointed and asked, “What are all of these blue things?”
“Don’t worry about them,” Bryan said. “They’re nothing.”
Okay. I didn’t worry about them and kept walking along the ditch looking for hidden pipes.
“Look at this,” Andy said a few minutes later, pointing between his feet.
Bryan and I walked to him and looked at a blue cylinder of the same kind of plastic buried halfway under grass and dirt. Though I knew not to touch anything strange on a military base, Bryan nonchalantly reached down and dug the mysterious object out of the ground. Warning lights went off in my head when he showed us a 2½” long by 1½” diameter round of ammunition, much larger than any rifle bullet. Maybe something from a Terminator movie. Bryan captured our undivided attention.
“Don’t move,” he said and gently placed the oversized projectile back onto the ground. “This ammunition isn’t supposed to be here.”
Neither was I.
“Now move away,” Bryan said. “Look behind you and make sure you don’t step on any of these rounds. Try to walk back to the runway.”
I stepped into the Twilight Zone. Now that I looked around more intensely, large and small pieces of blue ammunition lay scattered around us. Carefully we backed away from the whole shell.
After three steps backward, Bryan softly said, “Stop, Gordon.”
I froze in mid-step with my foot in midair. No way I was moving. I’d stay on one foot all day if he told me to.
He carefully dug up another whole shell behind me, then said, “You can put your foot down now.”
I slowly lowered my foot and gently put weight on it.
“Hey guys,” Andy said. “There are more whole shells between us and the runway.”
“Don’t take any more steps,” Bryan said.
That’s what they say in war movies. Damn. Gotta be cool. Think about fishing.
He made a call on his cell phone. After being transferred two times, he explained our situation to someone on his lunch break.
Andy’s eyes met mine. With a frown, I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head.
After a response, Bryan said, “Don’t tell me there’s no ammunition out here. I’m looking at numerous shells.”
So were Andy and me.
Another pause on the phone.
“I don’t care if shooting is unauthorized, we need help now. Not after your lunch. By the way, we have the runway shut down, so you better hurry.” He hung up. “Stay where you are. Someone’s on the way.”
He didn’t have to tell Andy and me not to move. Our feet were super glued to the ground for as long as it took. Bryan didn’t look concerned, so I forced myself to act cool.
“Andy, you’ve been around a lot. Have you ever run across this kind of problem?” I asked nonchalantly.
“Can’t say that I have,” he replied with an indifferent engineering voice like he was in a lab looking at a new specimen.
I changed the subject by talking to them about the ditch and our project in general. For ten minutes. I wish that guy would hurry up and get here. Taking advantage of our one on one time, I queried Bryan about upcoming services I might be able to provide for him. I hoped he felt sorry for me and would hand me another contract.
Twenty minutes later a vehicle pulled up to the end of the runway a hundred yards from us and a man in military clothing stepped out of his car. Mark called him on his phone and explained the situation. The soldier was a munitions specialist. He carefully walked to us, perusing the ground for blue shells. When he joined us, Andy and I listened as he talked to Bryan.
“What are these?” Bryan pointed to a whole shell near his foot.
“I told those helicopter gunners not to shoot over land.” He shook his head in frustration. “They don’t listen to me.”
Frigging wonderful I thought.
“But what are they?” Bryan asked again.
“Don’t worry, those are just tracer rounds from a helicopter’s 40 mm automatic grenade launcher. They flash but have no explosives.”
“Are these whole shells live?”
“Naw, those are duds. They were shot, but the tracer didn’t ignite. They’re like the lead from a bullet after it has been shot.”
“The plastic head is sealed with a metal base. Is tracer material still inside of it?” Bryan asked.
Andy and I turned our heads back and forth as they talked.
“Oh yes. Don’t open that shell or dangerous powder will spill out. I don’t think it will ignite.”
I’m not touching one of those. Much less opening it.
“What kind of powder?” I asked.
“Magnesium and other chemicals.”
“Isn’t Magnesium flammable?” asked Andy.
“Oh yes, that’s why they use it.”
“Can these shells still catch fire?” Bryan asked.
“Technically yes, but they need a primer to ignite them. They should be safe.”
Should is an iffy word.
“Could there be real rounds out here?” Bryan asked again.
“They shouldn’t have real ammo in these choppers.”
I’m getting tired of that iffy should word.
“Get us out of here,” Bryan said.
“Line up in a column and follow me out,” the munitions fellow said.
For ten agonizing minutes, we carefully followed him in slow motion, stepping in his footprints, like in a movie.
“Gordon and Andy,” Bryan said. “Remember to breathe.”
Right. I had been holding my breath. Ahead of me, sweat ran down the back of Andy’s neck.
Finally, we stepped onto the runway’s safety and left the Twilight Zone. What a relief. I now knew what being in a minefield was like – serious as hell.
The munitions officer said, “Ya’ll stay away from the end of our runways. When helicopters take off, the gunners fire a few tracer rounds for target practice.”
“Not to worry,” I said. “I’ll never inspect runways again.”
“Me neither,” Andy said.
“Now wasn’t that exciting?” Bryan laughed. “You should have seen your faces. You thought you were in a minefield and those were just duds.”
“I’m billing you double for hazard pay,” I said.
“No, you won’t. I got you out of trouble.”
We laughed nervously.
“Do you want a souvenir?” Bryan asked, holding out a blue grenade.
“It’s safe, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just don’t heat it up. And don’t be showing that around. Civilians aren’t supposed to have them.”
“Thanks. It will look cool on my desk.”
***
A few months later I was showing my grenade souvenir to a friend, Ron, at my house as my wife, Annie, cooked in the kitchen.
“Is this for real?” he asked, then twisted the blue plastic head off its metal base as he sat on my new white leather couch.
“Don’t,” I yelled.
Too late. Yellow powder spilled onto his lap, then rolled onto my couch.
“Freeze,” I said, taking the shell away from him.
I forced the blue head back onto the base to contain the rest of the yellow powder.
He stopped in shock.
“That’s flammable powder. I hope it doesn’t burn your crotch.”
“Do something,” he begged, looking between his legs with fear on his face.
“Don’t move.” A sledgehammer couldn’t move him.
I smirked. I wasn’t so much worried about burning Ron, but if I scorched our new couch, Annie would kill me. I tried to remember college chemistry. I knew pure phosphorus flamed terribly with water, but I wasn’t sure if magnesium was inert with water. I retrieved a wet rag to find out.
“Are you sure this is safe?” he asked.
“It’s magnesium. Remember school? Does it burn with water?”
“That was thirty years ago. You expect me to remember?”
“I think you’ll be okay. The military wouldn’t do anything dangerous.”
“You think?” He looked at me like I was crazy.
“I’m going to wipe it fast off your lap. If it ignites, jump up and take your pants off.”
“You’re kidding,” he said in disbelief.
“Here we go,” I said, and before he could object, I wiped the yellow powder from his lap with three quick flicks as he yelped. Nothing happened to his crotch.
“Get up. I have to clean that couch.”
I carefully wiped it down, greatly relieved no stains appeared.
“Ron, don’t tell Annie about this. I’ll really be in the doghouse.”
My military base inspection days are over, but I have that grenade on my desk as a souvenir, glued shut to prevent any more accidents.
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Kevin Hughes
11/12/2020Hey Gordon,
Congrats! I had fun the first time I read it, and just as much fun the second time too. Since yesterday was Veteran's Day this was a nice bookend to my Day long Celebration. Have a good day. And glad you won yet another Award!
Smiles, Kevin
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JD
09/13/2020I'm glad there were no live rounds in your mine field, Gordon. Cool 'souvenir' you ended up with. Very 'male' looking! Thanks for sharing your true life adventure story with us.
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Gordon England
11/12/2020Thank you JD. My counts really jump when you are so kind to give me this pr
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JD
09/14/2020It was a big job and I'm burned out and 'recovering'. But I hope everyone enjoys their 'mail' when they receive it.
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Kevin Hughes
09/05/2020Aloha Gordon,
Been there...done that. In Peacetime! We had to practice digging up mines..(all dummies). But three times in my career as a Mortar Man, I had to wait for a round to come out of the mortar tube...and it didn't As the Gunner, you have to catch a live round in your hands...and hand it to the Safety Officer to take to the dud pit for the EOD folks to blow up safely.
You also get to kick the barrel of the Mortar to dislodge a cook off...and you are the only one in the Gun Pit when you do that. Knowing the bursting radius of the round doesn't help you feel "safer". LOL
I know exactly what you meant in this story. But I never kept an 81 mm round, or a 4.2 inch round as a souvenir - LOL!
Smiles, a slightly sweaty from memory Kevin
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Kevin Hughes
09/06/2020Hey Gordon,
Yeah, "young and dumb" but not in the way that phrase is bandied about nowadays. I belong to MENSA- and in my Basic Training Unit we had four Ph.D's and one School Principal too. But we all had no clue what the Military and War were really about, or like.
I joined the Ohio National Guard in September of 1969....a year later I went on Active Duty in the regular Army. Why? Because I told my First Sergeant in the Guard that I didn't join the Army to point guns at American Civilians. Fifty years later, and young 18 and 19 year old kids like me are facing the same dilemma. History does indeed, repeat itself.
I do believe that because of the Autism, I wasn't able to finish my twenty years...I kept popping in and out of Active Duty and Active Reserve Units - so I ended up more than a decade and half in the Service...but no retirement. Missing those all important executive functions like planning and foresight...and lacking the ability to see things other than literally. Yes, I was the guy who spent hours looking for a "shot group tightener", or asking Supply for a "100 yards of shoreline" and Sarcasm ( a staple of any grunt in any Army) is beyond me. I don't get sarcasm...although I can now recognize it being used. LOL. So when a DI called me a "F*cking Genius". I beamed. I thought he meant it. LOL
Smiles, Kevin
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Gordon England
09/06/2020I am glad I was only dealing with tracer ammo instead of the real thing like you. Thats why they use young and dumb men in the militiary. I am impressed you had such experiences when being autistic
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