The errors of Political Correctness: a fictional short story by Brianroy

Here is another attempt at fiction writing by me...a kind of situational humor, I guess.

This is about as close to a dirty joke as I'll go...one that involves real dirt, etc. 

This fictional story is written from the point of narration, as if from the view of someone having experienced the following event.  Again, it is meant to be humorous.  I presuppose the narrator would be an Army Private having recently graduated as a US Army Ranger, and is sent on a 3 week manuever to someplace in the Western United States. 

Oddly enough, when I created and told a much shorter version of this story, the response, days after their having initially walked away, was a request that I never tell a dirty joke again.  I was lousy at it.


In a US Army Infantry squad with a guy named Duq’ (pronounced “Duck!”)

Some years back, the US Army tried this “Political Correctness” bunk in which all US Army Rangers were ordered to listen hyper-sensitively to “oppressed minority” views and suggestions. In case you ever wonder why it got dialed back a bit, let me tell you how that happened, in part, anyway.


At the Pentagon, when there was a new hyper-sensitivity policy that was implemented from the top, called at times as “the pant-wetting memorandum” and “the leaky diaper”, a certain young looking and very fit two star general in his mid to late 40s (I think he was) thought he would go undercover in the field, join us on the first day of our non-mechanized US Army Ranger Infantry maneuvers for 21 days while disguised as a private and see if the hyper-sensitivity policy was being thoroughly followed. I guess we were about three or four days into the new policy when he was attached to and joined our unit.  That was unfortunate for him, as he spent the last two weeks with us in the infirmary, all of us being laid up and over-dosing on antibiotics and experimental anti-virals. 


We arrived at some kind of Western US wilderness outpost, where 2,000 to 3,000 troops would inhabit a 150 acre area of these old World War II buildings. The plumbing was so old, that if you went to flush a toilet in the same building as those taking a shower, you yelled “flush” to let them jump back…as a shimmy would travel and creak a few seconds through the pipes and issue a burst of scalding hot water for 8 or 10 seconds. The hero of our story did this twice to us. Fortunately, the second degree sunburns a few of us got as we leaped 5 – 8 feet out of the shower was when we had our backs turned to the water, on mostly only to the part that we generally sit upon. Because our clothes were loose fitting and we rarely got to sit down the first day of maneuvers…I think that helped a lot.


It had rained for about 5 or 6 days the week before, and the ground still was often muddy in patches, especially on the dirt trails and dirt roads we followed. Add to this that we were packed with about 70 lbs of gear for the exercise, ironically called Lover’s Leap; and on Day One, were constantly ordered to march in 6 mile jaunts up this hill, await instructions, march 6 miles to that gully, and so forth...we found that the body tended to retard the brain and thought process when you became exhausted enough. But one thought went through just about everyone’s mind, how we all (and I suspect the incognito general as well from what I saw) hated this motor-mouth in the platoon, some guy who just happened to be Asian … and unfortunately for us, named Duq (pronounced like “Duck!” You know, the bird that goes “quack, quack).


Well, on the trail on Day One, Corporal Duq (/Duck) never shut up. By the time we had marched about 24 miles, it seemed like about half the time of our last 3 miles back to our assigned barracks the platoon Sergeant would let out a scream like “Du-uuu-q!!! Will you just shut the **** up?” Unfortunately, this was overheard by a Bird Colonel passing by in an open windowed Humvee Transport. Whereupon hearing the Platoon Sergeant yell “Du-uu-ck!!!” and seeing no reaction from us, that Bird stopped us. He then lined us up and gave us all a dressing down, after which 4 or 5 minutes he then ordered us into the slime-pits…a duck pond mud-hole about two feet deep just outside the wire, the lone string of chicken wire that marked the imaginary boundaries of our base camp.


There, for the next two hours, we heard the cry of “Du-uu—ck!”
some 100 times by count,
and “Phhht!” “Phhht!” “Phhht!” “Phhht!” , instantaneously without any hesitation,
we all dove as hard and as fast as we could and fully immersed ourselves 100% under the mud,
 like a duck immerses itself under water.


After that incident, and for the next few days, it seemed that but for the Platoon Sergeant, that nobody talked or very rarely said anything. Finally, about the 5th day into the maneuvers, we were ordered to go out at 0630 hours at half-pack (about 35 lbs), go to a destination we knew to be about 55 kilometers or a little better away, and return within 24 hours. We were not told what route to take, only that we were to reach our objective in 12 hours, and be back 12 hours after that. We went out and reached our destination with only 12 minutes to spare. At this point, we all knew we were in trouble, and that’s when Duq opened his mouth, and for the next 28 miles back, he just wouldn’t shut up. It was about 0430 in the morning when someone decided to figure out where we were, as the trail looked quite unfamiliar. We were about 5 miles off course thanks to Duq, who earlier had been sent up to “Point” at the head of the rest of us…but still at some 50-60 meters away, he still wouldn’t shut up.


One suggestion was that we do an about face, lay a Claymore, and call his tripping over it a “training accident”. But then we realized, that even in jest, no one was carrying so much as even a bullet for that turkey. Even a shotgun loaded with just a non-lethal 00 dose of rock salt “accidentally discharged” to his rump by any one of over 60 volunteers (or everyone, including the incognito general) would have let out a drowning cheer. But nope, no such luck.


Before we realized it, Corporal Duq was back, asking what was wrong. He looked at the map of where we were, where the base was, and made note that the shortest route involved going through a new Wastewater Treatment facility track of land, a route that should save us about 14 clicks and get everyone in with half an hour to spare, if we just double-timed the rest of the way and follow him. Of course, Sergeant **** for brains, yells out: “Alright, you heard him. Double time , again. Let’s go!”


It was about 0550 hours when we reached the wastewater facility tract and were about halfway across, passing over what seemed to be in the dawning lights, clay and white lime deposits. The base was now just 4 or 5 clicks away, and in view.  We were now just close enough to fulfill our objective, and make it both to and back from our destination "on time".  Some of us smiled in hope or at least wide-eyed tried, and panted what might have passed for as sighs of relief.

I suspect, all of us at or near the point of full exhaustion, were wondering why no one showed us this shortcut way before. Well, we began to realize something was wrong as it began suddenly to at first be muddy, and then slushy. I think we all had colds, so no one could really at first smell anything too different. After another 300 meters, we were all anywhere from up to our knees to up to our hips in the kind of muddy looking and almost paste-like wastewater with just 40 or 50, some said 30 meters to go before reaching our objective, and going up over a short rise and back to base…when suddenly, realizing that he was getting raw sewage down into his boots, the Platoon Sergeant reared his head back and screamed -- before he could take it back --


“Du-uu—ck!!!” ,

 and without any hesitation, he saw and heard,


“Phhht!” “Phhht!” “Phhht!” “Phhht!”