An Olive Drab Heaven Without Green Berets

          An old ring-knocker fell-out of his Final Formation to finally accept his terminal PCS reassignment. Throughout his leg military service, he'd always been a chairborne commando, and was proud of his staff status. His tunic was emblazoned with fruit salad and his cap was festooned with scrambled eggs ... he ostentatiously displayed garish gongs and bolo badges, cataloging his countless battles in defense of OJT, RHIP, and other good conduct ticket-punching. When he arrived at the HQ's Main (Pearly) Gates, he was glad to leave the brass rouge, shoe polish, and white wash behind. He was looking forward to trading his DD-214 for some Eternal Veterans' Benefits.

          The leg ring-knocker arrived at the Heavenly Orderly Room to sign-in for the Morning Report, and was in-processed by the Command Sergeant Major "Saint" Peter. They immediately filled canteen cups with hot coffee in preparation for CSM Peter's standard meet and greet speech. At the end of the briefing, the leg ring-knocker was departing for his billet when he remembered to ask a vital question: "You don't allow SFers in here do you?" CSM Peter replied, "No way, sir. They definitely have to go to a different place." The leg ring-knocker seemed mollified, and confessed, "Those arrogant SF troopers believe their own lies. They have no concept of proper military order and discipline. They've always caused me enormous problems!"

          Contented with his new Heavenly assignment, the leg ring-knocker ventured forth to admire the serried installations and the regimental landscaping. He was startled to observe a darting helicopter hover above a clearing while several men in unconventional uniforms rappelled onto the Landing Zone. He witnessed them form a defensive perimeter as their chopper departed, transmit the codeword WETSU over their squad radio, and quietly egress in a herringbone column along a predetermined azimuth. "Hey, Sar' Major, you lied to me!", yelled the leg ring-knocker. "You can't fool me ... those are elite soldiers! You promised that there would be no Special Forces here." "No, not at all!", retorted CSM Peter. "That's just the air-cavalry scout team. You remember the need for reliable military intelligence to assist operational movements; and this newly updated Intelligence and Reconnaissance team is integral to the unit's 2-shop. They're not SFers."

          The leg ring-knocker began to twitch, and nervously scanned the area in search of other paradisiacal inconsistencies. To his astonishment, some dark specks in the sky resolved into High-Altitude High-Opening parachutists who cork-screwed onto the parade ground to emplace tactical beacons and ground-panels. When finished, they assembled, and could be heard chanting GUNG-HO as they awaited further developments. "Hey, Sar' Major, you lied to me!", bellowed the leg ring-knocker. "You can't fool me ... those are elite soldiers! You promised that there would be no Special Forces here." "No, not at all!", asserted CSM Peter. "That's just the pathfinder team. You remember the need for an advance party, for a forward element in main-force operations; and this HAHO team is it. They're not SFers."

          The leg ring-knocker had no sooner turned back to the field after the reassurance when a roaring flight of rushing transport planes passed directly overhead while disgorging their contents. The Heavenly sky was filled with Low-Altitude Low-Opening paratroopers in full combat gear! As they descended onto the Drop Zone, the Heavens echoed with a grunting HOOAH, like a celestial prayer. "Hey, Sar' Major, you lied to me!", cried the leg ring-knocker. "You can't fool me ... those are elite soldiers! You promised that there would be no Special Forces here." "No, not at all!", responded CSM Peter. "That's just the ranger regiment. You remember the need for operational surprise and speed, and this LALO insertion is just a variation of combat arms rapid deployment. They're not SFers."

          The leg ring-knocker shook his head, mumbled to himself about those blanket-headed sneaky petes, and wandered off in search of the Officer's Club. While stopping to smell the roses along the way, he happened to notice someone concealed in the foliage. This warrior was painted, wearing cammies and a headband, and was using a tomahawk to skin a snake! Both shocked and gratified by his discovery, the leg ring-knocker flat-footed his way back to Headquarters ... arriving too out of breath to scream. "Hey, Sar' Major, you lied to me!", squeaked the leg ring-knocker between pants and puffs. "You can't fool me ... that's an elite soldier! I know a snake-eater when I see one! You promised that there would be no Special Forces here." "No, not at all!", reassured CSM Peter. "That's just a recondo patrolman. You remember the need for improved surveillance preliminary to operational plans, and this is provided by the Long-Range Reconnaissance Patrol. The modern military has to be lean and mean, so LRRP/LRSP proficiency helps save big unit funds and personnel. They're not SFers."

          Wringing his hands in agony, the leg ring-knocker dejectedly plodded toward the Chaplain's Office because he had growing doubts about his vocation. He wondered if he could get transferred to the section responsible for spit and polish, or the section that produced red tape, or the section that fractured syntax into mil-speak. He'd been a good double-checker, so where was his reward? His musings were interrupted when he passed beneath an ominous shadow, and when the leg ring-knocker looked up, he was confronted by a disheveled and disagreeable grotesque. The leg ring-knocker couldn't believe that this Wondrous Kingdom would permit a muscle-bound giant, wearing scuffed boots, rumpled fatigues, stained webgear, and an over-loaded rucksack to grace its pristine premises! This colossus wore bandoleers across his massive chest, bulging gear and ammo pouches, a Rolex watch, a Randall knife, an insignia earring, adoptive native jewelry, and he was festooned with grenades. This fantastic specimen was unshaven, had a big cigar clamped in his sardonic grin, and his penetrating eyes sparkled like the star-sapphire ring that winked from his powerful hands which cradled an exotic SMG. The most devastating part of all was the crushed green beret, bearing an immaculate recognition bar, that was atop the gigantic warrior's noble head! "Hey, Sar' Major, you lied to me!", shrieked the leg ring-knocker. "You can't fool me ... that's an elite soldier! I know a genuine Green Beret when I see one! You promised that there would be no Special Forces here." "No, not at all!", patiently replied CSM Peter. "That's a candy-bar on His hat. He's not Special Forces qualified! That's just God pretending to be a real SFer. He likes to play the role for the prestige."