The Smaj Circular

Military Humor

Written by Jim Staley

Illustrated by Mark Baker

The circular Sgt. Major argument is famous Army-wide.  The term “argument” is actually a misnomer.  The Sgt. Major-circular is a system of interrogative ass-chewing, from which logic and coherent explanation is banned; it is a technique to get the subordinate to break down into an apologetic puddle of goo.  Its rules are slanted strongly in favor of the superior.  Taking part in one can be a fascinating, although harrowing experience.

I’ve had a few of these, one of my favorites being with a terminally angry Sgt. Major at Eagle Base, BiH.  I had, in a reckless leap from uniformity, with flagrant and blatant disregard for all that is right in the universe, donned black fleece Patagonia gloves that day, knowing that they a) keep my hands much warmer than Army-issue gloves, which suck, and b) allow me to operate my camera equipment without fumbling around in the archaic, clumsy, poor-fitting Army gloves, dropping bits of kit and camera into the snow.

So, cruising around with my tactical, functional, better-in-all-ways, yet unauthorized, fleece gloves, I found myself in the Mayor’s cell, with Sgt. Major Sunshine all fuming and out of sorts.  Apparently my gloves were the most threatening things to the safety and operation of Eagle Base, because he rounded a desk and descended upon my unsuspecting gloves like a moth on a hundred-watt patio bulb.

"What are those on your hands?"

Now I realize that the enlisted Army is not a haven for the academically superior.  However, gloves are prevalent in many cultures around the world, and failure to recognize the common glove, well, that just isn’t good.  This guy couldn’t possibly be that thick, could he?

Ok, so we’ve figured out what’s on my hands.  Outstanding.  Well done, an excellent show of what the backbone of the Army is capable of when it really buckles down and gets to problem-solving.

“What kind of gloves are those?”

Well, he understands they’re gloves, clever man, and wishes to know more about them.  Not in a nice way, though, because the poor guy is visibly upset, nearly fuming.  Maybe he had a bad run-in with some gloves as a kid.  Whatever the reason, I realize that this could get somewhat nasty, seeing as between the two of us, one of us was really angry at my gloves.  Maybe he thought they were made by communists or something.

His childhood run in must have involved black fleece gloves because he was really getting steamed now.

“What kind of gloves are authorized?”

We can all see where this is going now. 

“Are those black leather gloves?”

Holy God, they aren’t!  Wow, where did these despicable unauthorized things come from?  Jeez, that was close!  Good thing you came along when you did, because peace and stability damn near came crashing down on… is what I didn’t say.

“Then why are you wearing them!?”

I would have thought that, seeing as it was the coldest, snowiest winter in 50 years, according to the locals, that would be evident.  One look at the snow, that I spent a great deal of time slogging about in, piled high everywhere outside the warm smaj’s office should have solved that question.  However, he had to ask what the gloves were to begin with, so maybe he just needed a little help.

He was obviously upset that I hadn’t dashed them to the floor, cursing them, pleading forgiveness and swearing never to stray from lowest-bidder, WWII-era issue equipment for the remainder of my long, bitter career in the Army, but the smaj circular can be a painful process for both parties.  He started losing it.

Is it because you just don’t give a shit!?”

Oh, obviously.

Previous attempts to rationally explain nonconformity for sound military purposes had met with limited success.  I recalled the summer of 1997 when Sgt. Major Ripka, a thoroughly brainwashed leg Sgt. Major (he wore a ranger tab, but seemed to have completely forgotten what that all meant) from the 25^th ID, had screamed at me, “Don’t you try to tell me about war fighting!” I had attempted to explain to him that cat eyes on a P.C. (patrol cap) have war fighting purpose, which should be a higher purpose than uniformity.  He was another fine specimen, Ripka. I’m glad he didn’t see the 550 cord in my boots, or he might have had a sudden and acute onset of Uniformity Failure-induced angina, and burst into flying bits of pulp on the spot.

So with Sgt. Major I-Hate-Your-Gloves, I dropped into the reliable, Ripka-proven, “Yes, Sgt. Major, you’re a big man, and I’m a very small man, so you’re so much bigger than I am, being a very very small man, and you’re so big,” routine, which seems to wrap up the circular crap without escalating it into a brain seizure or Article-15.

It worked nicely.

“Then why are you wearing them?”

That was what he wanted to hear.  To him, it was the admission of error, my concession, a confession of my treason against my flag, my country, and my duty as an NCO.  It had been a fight and a struggle, but he had won, and set this young NCO straight.  U.S. soldiers hadn’t died by the truckload on foreign lands just so modern troops could wear their own gloves, that’s for damn sure.  Now he had won, and could focus on bigger and better things.

“Those cat eyes on your cover are unauthorized, too.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

I continued revising my circular argument tactics until I learned how to cut one off immediately, to nip it in the bud before it could pick up momentum and suck common sense, intelligence, free thinking and other enemies to the state into the disorganized whirlpool of stupidity known as the Military Mindset.  A scant few days before rotating out of that prison camp Eagle Base, the Multinational Division (North) commander, Major General Halverson, dropped by to congratulate us on whatever he thought we needed congratulations for, and to give us coins.  Which is lame, because coins should be earned, not given, sort of like black berets.  But I digress.

We stood in a row, and he came through, his entourage lurking close by.  He would ask a soldier a couple questions, smile, chortle, shake hands, and then move on.  He stopped in front of me, all beaming and fatherly.

“How are you doing, Sergeant Staley?”

“Quite well, sir.”  Quite well, considering I was in an unstable state of barely-controlled rage most of my waking hours, and loathed all around me.

“Are you ready to go home?”

“Already there, sir.” 

A puzzled/concerned look began to replace his fatherly-type smile, and suddenly everything seemed to be very quiet.  I could sense a massive tsunami of panic rising amongst his entourage.

“Already there?” 

Oh shit, here we go. 

“How can you be already there when you’re still here?”

This was phrased as a genuine question.  Either he was truly confused at the seeming physical impossibility of Jim being in two places at once, or he was transitioning into a Sgt. Major-circular.  Whatever the reason, this was going to get gnarly in short order unless remedied.  In keeping with the lowest-common-denominator mindset of the U.S. military, I stuffed the honesty and spat dogma.

“Home is where I ground my rucksack, sir.”

The effect was perfect and immediate.  The disturbed, suspicious man disappeared, and the proud fatherly figure was instantly back, just like that.

“Ah, infantry,” he approved, beaming and nodding his head.  He turned and moved on, and life, as much as it was there, resumed.