Yup, I’m a POG. Maybe the poggiest of the POGs. I’ve served three years and five months as one and to be more specific, as an 0111 Admin. In that time, I’ve spent countless hours being blamed for pay problems, working in an air conditioned office, and generally being some higher-ups personal bitch. However, I’m also one of the few Marines of my MOS that has more than two ribbons, been anywhere outside of Camp Lejeune, and know more than one aspect of my actual job title. What I’m getting to is this: what the fuck difference does it make? POG, Grunt, Marine, Soldier…guess what, we all die the same for this glorious thing called the U.S.A. No you say? I’m glad you disagree.
May 10, 2010 – Dec 1 2010 OEF
Not even a week into the desert I was told I was being fapped out due to my uselessness in the shop. I did not know that I’d be attached to 3rd LAD BN or 9th Engineers Security. This little TAD proved to be my entire tour. by the end of the first month with those guys, they never called me a fucking POG. It was a mutual understanding if not an unspoken one. IEDs didn’t care about only killing grunts. The rounds didn’t magically turn and bend to avoid my direction. The docs didn’t give two shits if you were infantry or not; just that you helped them get the wounded out. Basically, I couldn’t give a fuck less what you call your non infantry. We all bled the same. We were all scared the same. We all treated each other the same.
This concludes my rant.
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