No, not a rodent abuser, a radio jammer. For Tha Army. It was cool. Can’t really tell you about the best parts of the job ‘cuz there’s like all this security clearance and stuff. But I do have two fun stories, both of which, noe I think about it, have one thing in common. Cobb. No, I wasn’t a Cobb jammer either. Cobb is the the name of the guy I’m going to just refer to as Cobb because, well, that was his last name. Private Cobb. My own private Cobb. Wow, that one’s got potential. Glad I waited until I was discharged before I went really insane.
First story, which I think actually happened first of the two here: I used to be a jammer. I had a small team of social misfits (including meself) who were know to have not failed at exactly two things in their lives: foreign languages, and electronic warfare. In the world of electronic warfare the jammer is not unlike a sniper. We eavesdrop on radio communications, determine the structure of the radio network and, with some assistance from another specialty unit, pinpoint the location of each radio station in the network. With a short period of time on the battlefield, our artillery guys know where the enemy radio stations are and who’s in charge. Our motto was, “We don’t kill you, but we give Death your address.” Not much of that is really relevant to either story, but it brings back fond memories to talk about it. So:
First story: My jamming radio was housed in a Hummer. It could broadcast an obscenely powerful signal. How much? Enough that there was some pretty good shielding between the radio operator and the antenna which was mounted only a few feet away. Now, it is vitally important to the success of the mission and the safety of the team that the antenna is assembled correctly. Failure to, say, correctly attach the cable from the transmitter to the antenna is electronically equivalent to plugging the muzzle on a rifle—the signal bounces back into the shielded radio house where the operator sits in a dim red light, usually with an evil grin on his face. So, one nasty, rainy night I took my turn at the helm to carry on our nocturnal mission. About 30 minutes into the mission, it became appropriate for me to reach out and touch someone in order to block some critical exchange of bad-guy information. As soon as I began to transmit I had a feeling that something had gone terribly wrong. Maybe it was the sudden taste of pennies, maybe it was the hot-all-over feeling you get when you’re lying naked on your back under the desert sun with a bullet hole in your neck, or maybe it was just the way my eyes crossed as my face folded in on itself. But whatever it was, the net result was me, 15 seconds later, planting the toe of my boot in Cobb’s hip (he was the one in charge of assembling the antenna) and dragging him out into the rain in his skivvies and ordering him to get the loose end of the cable (which was dangling mere inches away from its socket) plugged in. In exchange for his prompt attention to the matter I afforded him the grace of not completing the installation myself and affixing the business end of the cable to his genitals.
Second story: The next day, we had a day off. The mission from the evening before had been a wild success and what was supposed to be a 2-day battle turned into a 20 minute massacre in which 90% of the opfor was annihilated in complete radio silence thanks to the efforts of our EW team. I was having a nap. With no bad guys out and about, and a fistful of opfor officers nursing gushing bite wounds on their backsides things were pretty tranquil on our site of occupation—a former impact zone (the exciting half of an artillery range). Just as I’m dozing off, I hear tink tink tink Which I was perfectly fine with ignoring as I and the rest of my guys were dead tired. tink tink tink Drifting off, my inner Eeyore is musing, “What do we have in our gear that would make that noise. And why would anyone here be making any of our equipment make that noise?” tink tink tink “Might be worth a peak.” I opened up an eye and squinted in the direftion of the tink tink tink . Cobb. I could see his back. He was sitting cross-legged about 15 feet away from me, working with a dedication I rarely saw in him on something that goes tink tink tink when you work on it. I became curious because, well, with Cobb you just get curious when he shows an interest in something. “Cobb?” Yes, sergeant Montoya?” “What ‘cha got there?” “Looks like an old 120mm round.” “Mmm…ok. … “ Trying to silence the mental claxons. tink tink tink My eyes pop open. “Cobb, what ‘cha doin’ with that 120mm round?” “Trying to get the fuse out, but it seems to have corroded onto the shell.” “Cobb, would you mind doing that over there in that draw (about 10 yards away)?” “Oh I’m sorry. Is it keeping you awake?” “Cobb, What’s a fuse do?” (proudly):”The fuse detonates the explosive compounds within the shell upon impact with…oh.” “You’re a good boy, Cobb. Please be careful when you set that back down in that draw (about 100 yards away).”