The Social Justice Armed Forces

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Mon, Dec 28 - 9:00 am EST | 3 years ago by
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Lines of Departure - Social Justice Armed Forces

Our Sparkly and Shiny New Social Justice Armed Forces1 (Part I)

Next time you’re in worship services, if you’re religiously observant, or next time your mind turns to matters divine, even if you are not, do us all a favor and ask the Lord not for forgiveness of our sins; He’ll probably do that anyway. Instead, ask for forgiveness of our stupidities. That’s an unusual request, so maybe He’ll listen.

On the other hand, maybe He won’t. Maybe He’ll figure we deserve what we’ve wrought and what we’ve allowed to be wrought. For this, let’s take a little exploration, shall we, of the future infantry company in our increasingly and expandingly Social Justice obsessed, where justice means tyranny, LGBTQUERTYUIOP-friendly, if not even actively aroused, gender neutral, except where quotas shall be instituted to erase and reverse existing privilege, Zampolit-dominated2, because, quite correctly, real soldiers cannot be trusted to implement the political pieties of the day, “battle ready,” where ready means completely unready, demoralized, decadent, disgraceful, disgusting, and depraved armed forces. If they’re not quite there yet, have faith; they will be.

In any case, onward comrades, into the glorious future brought to us by progress and social justice. In other words, let’s go meet the company.

Top, got a minute? Can you tell us about the company? I mean the real inside scoop.

“Oh, it’s not so bad, I suppose. Could be worse anyway. I mean, I think maybe it could be worse. It used to be worse, actually, back when the XO – Lieutenant Dainty, our lipstick lesbian – was still pining over the fact that Staff Sergeant Levee wouldn’t return her affections. God, she was the distilled and concentrated essence of PMS for months. But Levee wasn’t attracted to lipstick lesbians, and was too much of a pro to cross the officer-enlisted divide.”

She’s not still pining?

“Oh, no, sir; Lieutenant Dainty has gone from pining to active persecution. Unfortunately, Staff Sergeant Levee is the kind of masculine woman – she’s actually one of our better squad leaders, way better than Sergeant Elmpwrist, for example, who is, at least technically, male – who doesn’t appeal very much to Captain von Ruggenmunschen. And, since Dainty is a subbie, too, and since von Ruggenmunschen carries a riding crop…well…the deck’s getting pretty stacked against Levee. Shame, too, she’s almost the only female in the company who won’t instantly drop to her knees at the presentation of an inconvenient duty roster or order to conduct a road march with full load. Even Dainty’s been known to put on the kneepads to get out of pulling holiday staff duty officer, and even, so the sergeant major tells me that the adjutant told him, to pretend she likes it and swallow with a smile.

“Anyway, let’s look across the hallway, sir.

“First up, we’ll very quietly open this closed doors with the sign saying “Captain Vimpenscheisse.” Ah, there is the commander of the company. Lemme close the door gently and I’ll explain.

“No, sir, I didn’t mean the captain behind his desk, with his chair rotated sideways away from the door, and with his trousers down around his ankles. No, I meant the female PFC on her knees. Who’s she? She’s his driver, PFC Dawn Dinkleschlurper, currently – if the sound effects are to be trusted – nom-nom-noming the command schlong. She’s in charge of the company now; the captain just does what she tells him to. Of course, Dawn doesn’t answer to the battalion commander, the way commanders used to. Instead, she answers to Captain Sapho von Ruggenmunschen, the battalion Zampolit, who, with any luck at all, we’ll manage to avoid on our little sojourn.

“In any case, we’ll be ladies and gentlemen and not interrupt PFC Dinkleschlurper at her very important…err…um…job.”

Aren’t you afraid you’ll get in trouble showing us all this, Top?

“Fuck that; I’m retiring in a week, so I don’t really give a Flying Philadelphia Fuck about my future career prospects. But we’re about to hold PT formation, sir; would you care to watch?”

Sure, Top, lead on. Say, what’s that smaller formation over there to the left? Is that all female?

“That’s pregnancy formation, sir. Yeah, yeah, I know; pregnancy is incompatible with pretty much any military service, let alone service in the infantry. But we’re stuck with it. I misremember the string of Supreme Court cases that were read off to us at the school house – well, I remember one, the chicken thief vasectomy case, Skinner – but there’s apparently no right more sacred than the right to reproduce, so we have to let the girls get knocked up when they feel like it. Except that there’s no right more sacred than the right to privacy and control over their own bodies, so they can get abortions whenever the reason they got pregnant has passed.

“‘That’s what makes America great,’ they keep telling me. Funny, though, that I can’t find a single instance where the right to avoid difficult service at a whim ever helped make America great. But what do I know; I only educated, but not so extravagantly credentialed.”

What about that one on the right of the pregnancy formation as they stand? That’s a male, isn’t it, Top? What’s going on there, one of those sensitivity things where the men have to wear fake pregnancy bumps?

“No, sir, wish it was only that; that kind of stupidity passes, eventually, and the resentment doesn’t last forever. No, that’s Loretta, he insists we call him ‘Loretta’, pretending to be pregnant. And we have to go along with it or he’ll go to the Zampolit with a complaint of…umm…what did they call it last time? Oh, yes, I remember, “transgender oppression.”

Did Loretta ever say who got him pregnant, Top?

“Over there in the female PT uniform, sir, with the red high heels. That’s Notional Private Athenetos, who used to pretend to be a lesbian transgender soldier but is, in fact, a pure civilian cross-dressing male homosexual, pretending to be a female lesbian soldier. Sneaks onto post about twice a week. Ah, what the hell, she, he, or it bought the PT uniform from the Cav Store with her, his, or its own dime, and usually doesn’t fall out of the runs, which is more than I can say for most of the women in the company. And, according to Third Platoon Leader, when Athenetos swallows with a smile, at least the smile is sincere. Besides, the Zampolit calls it ‘good community relations’ because the freak shows up in her office for a caning. It does get awkward when he shows up for routine performance counseling.”

Holy fuck.

“Yeah..yeah…well, they call it progress, I hear. But this word they are using? I dunno thin’ it means wha’ they thin’ it means.”

Aha, another fan of The Princess Bride, I see.

“Yes, sir, I am. But you know that thing about mostly dead and all the way dead?”


“I think we’re getting past being just mostly dead. You’ll see. You want to join us for the march to the field, later on? It’ll be quite something.”

Next week: To the field


1 This column is dedicated to Irene Gallo, of TOR books.

2 Soviet political action officer or deputy for political – which is to say political indoctrination – matters

Tom Kratman is a retired infantry lieutenant colonel, recovering attorney, and science fiction and military fiction writer. His latest novel, The Rods and the Axe, is available from for $9.99 for the Kindle version, or $25 for the hardback. A political refugee and defector from the People’s Republic of Massachusetts, he makes his home in Blacksburg, Virginia. He holds the non-exclusive military and foreign affairs portfolio for EveryJoe. Tom’s books can be ordered through

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