Ssg Ocs Wife

For those of you familiar with Ft. Bragg, Airborne, and Special Forces, the locations and sayings should be familiar. For those of you who are not, I've spelled out all the acronyms and sayings. The idea is, like Cajun English, Military English is a unique dialect.

This is in Loving Wives because there is a cheating wife and we also meet the cuckolded husband. Due to circumstances beyond our control, we never learn how the couple ends.

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Once a week or so I filled up my car with gas on Yadkin Road, just off Ft. Bragg, NC. It had been a long time since I'd been laid. Friendly women in the Fayetteville, NC area were few and far between, post-Vietnam War. Many of the civilians openly hated GIs, their cleanest nickname for soldiers.

A young woman who worked at a particular gas station was pretty and had a friendly smile. Let's call her Carrie. Carrie and I were friendly, then very friendly, then flirtatious. I tried not to push too hard. She was pretty, had blonde hair, wore no rings, was skinny, and had an ass to die for. It was tight, very tight. Her eyes smiled in ways that caused her face to appear in my dreams, vividly. She had this way of chewing on her lower lip which kept me rigid, for days. I imagined her putting her arms around my neck and rubbing her groin against mine, driving me insane.

But she was inside a plexiglass booth and I was seemingly miles away, stuck in my fantasy.

One day I took the bold step and asked her out. She locked eyes with me, smiled, and said, "I'd love to!"

I am blond, six foot, in shape, handsome, and horny as any man. Carrie was about five foot six, slim, and had a slinky body. We exchanged information and I agreed to pick her up that Saturday at six.

When Saturday came, I showed up with a small bouquet of flowers, which she put in a vase, and we stepped out. I opened my door for my 1968 Buick Le Sabre. She slid in with a smile, and off we went. We had dinner, drinks, and then headed for her home.

We left a trail of clothing from her door to her bedroom.

We spent a wonderful night fucking, then making love, and then cuddling. I explored her lovely body. I wanted to make her feel loved, appreciated, and totally satisfied. I used every tool I had available after exploring all her pleasure centers. Carrie loved full, soft kisses and gentle caresses. I found erogenous zones on her neck, ears, and behind her knees. She exploded when I discovered that rough spot inside the top of her vagina.

By the time she finally guided me into her central warmth, she was already covered with sweat and was gasping out my name every few seconds.

The sex was hot, frantic, and frenzied, the first time. The next time was tender, loving, and with plenty of eye contact and loving soft caresses. Every time I filled her up all the way, and then some, Airborne! (This joke originated in the 82nd Airborne Division's official greeting and response between an enlisted paratrooper and an officer. An enlisted soldier would salute an officer and say, " All the way and then some." The officer would salute and respond with, "Airborne!")

I awoke the next morning, relaxed and satiated. I looked over at the beautiful nymphette beside me and smiled. This could be the start of something really nice.

I got up and walked around during a glorious clear, bright dawn. Everything was neat, tidy, and in its place. One of the first places I looked at was the fireplace mantle. On it I saw family pictures. I saw her. Then I recognized Staff Sergeant (SSG) OC standing beside her.

SSG OC.

Dread, shock, and shame suddenly hit me.

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I had finished the Special Forces Qualification Course and earned my Green Beret only a few months prior. It's since changed to earning a Special Forces Tab. You're allowed to wear a Green Beret in some elite assignments.

During Phase II of the three phased course, I had learned advanced radio operator skills to become a Special Forces Communications Sergeant. After five weeks of intensive classroom and morse code laboratory work, we jumped into a forest drop zone from a Caribou C-7A for a three week intensive field exercise in the Pisgah National Forest in the mountains between North Carolina and Tennessee.

It was March. It was bitter with ice, snow, and mixed rain. The mountains were tall and always cold, the streams were fast and frigid, and the slopes were unbelievably steep. Somehow our path always took us up the steepest and longest slopes. Then, we set up a camp on one of the many deserted logging roads and went to excruciating pain to put our makeshift field antennas dead on for azimuth and angled to make the 282 mile transmission on 5 watts of power to send and receive coded messages. These directional antennas were our lifeblood.

Imagine shivering from the intense cold, writing down a message, decoding from a trigraph and an encryption pad, and handing in a hopefully perfect message at all hours of the day or night, only using a shielded flashlight. Imagine using a hand cranked generator to transmit another encoded message from a burst transmission device. We all did it at least twice daily, moving camp frequently for safety and security.

One of the instructors, SSG OC, would walk into camp at night, between contact times, and wake us all up. He would hold something in his hand and accuse us of breaking Operational Security, displaying a piece of aluminum foil from who knows where. He told us to, "pack up the camp, we leave in five minutes! " (Just walking out to the end of the antenna wires took five minutes.) We would pack up and be ready in about six minutes. He'd say, "Okay, follow me." He'd take two steps and say, "Okay, setup here."

Sometimes he'd do this two or three times per night. We all hated him. He seemed to take perverse delight in torturing us.

After our second pack up event—and don't forget we moved every day—I accepted it was plain and simple harassment, which was a part of why the Special Forces Qualification Course had a high washout rate. That, plus the skills we needed were very technical and difficult. We were kept exhausted.

I passed Phase II and Phase III, after the final Robin Sage Exercise. On July 12th, I received my Green Beret and was assigned to a Special Forces A Team.

In my mind, I retained a special place of extreme dislike for SSG OC. I later discovered the "harassment" was preplanned, we were being prepared to work in high stress environments and thrive. At that point, however, I really didn't like him too much.

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I walked back into the bedroom. She was finally awake.

I asked, "Why do you have a picture of SSG OC on your mantle?"

I knew the answer but I wanted it out in the open so we could deal with it.

I knew I had just violated one of my foundational tenets: I never sleep with married women. I did not want to be the cause of their marriage ending. I especially did not want to hurt a fellow Special Forces guy, no matter my opinion of him.

She readily admitted he was her husband. Just as quickly, the conversation turned into the Twilight Zone.

I briefly explained where I had met her husband and what I thought of him.

She stated flippantly, "You hate him. You told me so." Then, without missing a beat, "Would you kill him for me?"

Every soldier has Life Insurance, which they buy for pennies. The payout, I believe, was $25,000.

She explained further. She wanted me to kill him; she'd get the $25,000 and she'd pay me $5,000.

My head was spinning. Five thousand was a lot of money back then. I seriously considered it. I told her I'd have to make a plan and let her know my decision.

Later, I drove back to my barracks, wondering if I should do it or should I turn her in. I had no proof. I would destroy their marriage. That much was guaranteed. $5,000 was a huge amount of money and I didn't get a big paycheck. I didn't have heartburn about killing. Yes, she was psychopathic, wanting to kill her husband. I made plans either way. I needed to talk with a trusted friend. I had never dealt with civilian police and didn't know what to do.

Man plans, God laughs.

I had no time to voice my dilemma to my Team Sergeant.

At Physical Training (PT), the next day, I was told to report to the Robin Sage base station to do support. Our battalion was in our "Post Support" cycle and got all the taskings. I threw my already packed deployment rucksack into my car and di di mau'd (drove quickly) out there.

I walked into the Base Station and met... SSG OC. To say I was triple shocked is an understatement. I disliked him from Phase II, but I knew it was all part of the program. I had slept with his wife and I felt guilt. Then she had tried to hire me to kill him, just the day before.

There are over 30,000 paratroopers and Special Forces at Fort Bragg. What are the odds of me meeting this couple and all these events occurring?

How do I tell this man about his wife?

I was grappling with my internal issues while I received a short briefing on equipment, contact schedules, and so on. Everything was done manually except for our high-speed tape recorders. We would receive burst transmissions at set times, which would last mere seconds. We recorded them and played them back at a much slower speed, wrote down the message, and then decrypted the message using a one-time pad and a trigraph.

Contacts were only scheduled for mornings, so the rest of the day was free. OC and I sat, talked, told jokes, and quickly became friends. It was bizarrely pleasant.

When not talking, I did PT and ran on the roads through the surrounding hills. I ran past a broken down trailer each day and stopped to see if they needed help. I saw their broken steps and the boards needed to fix them. To me it was merely being helpful.

After I finished the next day, I was introduced to their 18-year-old daughter. Oh, chit. She glopped (a highly technical term which means attached at the cellular level) to my arm and followed me around like a puppy dog. The next day she invited me to a "wrassling" match in Raleigh. I couldn't say no.

The next night we drove in their 30+ year old truck for the hour or so ride. It was Hell. She had an eight track player that played only one track. She had only one tape - Rod Stewart, "A Night On the Town". It kept repeating the song, "Tonight's the Night", as she looked at me with googly eyes. My blood was running cold from this Twilight Zone-like experience.

I survived the night by remaining a complete gentleman, but God, those big boobs against my arm felt good.

During the day, OC and I worked our asses off in the morning, then we would kick back and talk. I had almost forgotten about his wife and her offer.

OC completely won me over when he drew me two pencil sketch cartoons of SF radio operators. One showed an SF radio

operator (RTO), his antenna being struck by lightning and him lighting up like an incandescent light bulb. The second showed two Green Berets in a bar, talking in morse code. "So I said to her, let's fuck!" The second guy, also in morse code, is laughing, "Ha, ha, ha, ha." To this day, these drawings remain one of my most prized possessions.

At the end of the two-week Robin Sage exercise, I still had not shared my dilemma. I was kept too busy. When I returned, I quickly deployed on a real world operation, then a training exercise, then was loaned to two different A teams.

I returned, perhaps six months later. I was kept busy until I got out, years later.

Now, 40 years later, I've only shared this tale with you, dear readers. Like most of my missions and adventures, most will die with me.

I realize the Statute of Limitations has not expired on Conspiracy to Commit Murder or any related charges, but, quite frankly I wouldn't know how to proceed, and I don't give a rat's patootie.