I lived on a military base for a few weeks. My packages started disappearing. It wasn’t every package, but with Christmas coming up, I couldn’t keep ordering and risk my purchases disappearing. Every person on base has to either have a military ID or sign in with the front gate, so the possible list of thieves was limited. Still, with no way to identify the thief, my report was useless.

I ordered a security camera and decided it would be too ironic if the camera was stolen, so I took the day off work and waited for the delivery. I heard someone at my front door and thought it was the delivery guy. Instead, I was face to face with a man in plain clothes. He looked up, his hands on my delivery.

Man: “Uh…”

He extended the box toward me. I took his picture with my phone.

Man: “You can’t take my picture!”

Me: “You can’t take my delivery. Now get the f*** off my porch.”

I took the box from his hands and shut the door in his face. I went out later to install my camera and found that my potted plants had been ripped out and a puddle of urine was left on my doorstep. I shared the photo with security and they confirmed that the man was a guest of one of the families living on my street. I installed my camera and haven’t had a package stolen since.

I’m a plumber. Together with a coworker and an apprentice, I get sent to a military base for repairs that will take several days. On the first morning, we show our paperwork at the gate. The sergeant lets us in, handing us each a form that we’ll have to bring back, filled out and signed, when we leave.

In the afternoon, when we’re leaving, the watch has changed. The new sergeant checks our forms.

Sergeant: “There’s a signature missing at the bottom. Your officer-in-charge has to sign the forms before I can let you out.”

Me: “We’re from [Company]; our boss isn’t here on the base.”

Sergeant: “No, no, not your boss. Your officer-in-charge.”

Me: “I’m not sure who that is, sir.”

Sergeant: “Your superior! I can’t let anybody out of here without permission. You’d be AWOL.”

Me: “Sir, we’re plumbers from [Company].”

I try to show him the paperwork we already showed in the morning to get in.

Sergeant: “Someone must be in charge of you! Go and get his signature!”

We retreat around the corner of a building, where he can’t see us. Since we don’t know what else to do, I sign on my coworkers’ forms and one of them signs off on mine. We go back to the gate and hand in the forms.

Sergeant: “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He let us out. We worked at the base for several more days and signed each others’ forms every time. The soldiers at the gate were happy.

Back in high school, I got a summer job at an amusement park. If you were active-duty military, you and your dependents got free access to the park once a year.

A lady came in with a group of kids and other adults and handed me a FAKE active military ID. The image and information looked legitimate according to my reference sheet, but she had seriously printed it out and badly duct-taped it to a white plastic card. No one with her had a dependent ID, either.

Me: “Ma’am, I can’t accept this ID. I could lose my job for letting in a group of over ten people for free.”

She argued with me. I pointed out that her fake ID was actually illegal, but her attitude clearly told me she didn’t care.

Lady: “If you won’t give me free tickets, I want to talk to your manager, supervisor, or whoever!”

Me: *Gladly.* “Okay!”

A manager, who was in their twenties, came, but the woman yelled at them, too, and demanded a higher supervisor. The supervisor, an older, no-nonsense lady, came out.

Supervisor: “Ma’am, I’ll call security to keep you from leaving and gladly wait here with you for the cops to come.”

She finally left with her group and never came back.

I work in a government-sponsored credit union department. I deal with approving loans and financing credit availability to soldiers and their military families for big-ticketed retail items like furniture, electronics, or fine jewelry.

I’m manning the credit desk when [Military Wife] comes in. [Military Wife] is dressed to the nines, dripping in jewelry, and sporting a designer handbag.

I then look at the three kids she drags in and gasp to myself. They are so dirty! They have food stuck to their T-shirts and dirt on their faces, and their clothes are not laundered and are full of holes. They look like they could be poster kids for child protective services. As the three kids decide that my office is the place to start beating the crap out of each other, [Military Wife] ignores them and approaches my desk.

Military Wife: “Hello. I need to upgrade my credit by $4,000 because I want to trade in my diamond earrings for bigger ones.”

Me: “Let me see what I can do.”

I check my computer. Meanwhile, the kids are very nearly imitating a bar fight, minus some thrown furniture, and [Military Wife] is doing nothing about it.

Me: “I’m sorry but the extension on the credit offered is only for $1,000. Three months ago, we extended your credit by $5,000 and you’ve already exceeded that amount.”

Military Wife: “Oh, it’s okay. Just have them raise it up another $4,000. My husband’s credit is good. That shouldn’t be a problem.”

Me: “I can’t just do that, ma’am. I have to make some calls because they are allowing up to $1,000 only.”

I call the main branch office and am put on hold. During this time, the kids are now hurting each other, if the screaming and wailing are to be believed. [Military Wife] doesn’t lift a finger to break it up, just tells them to be quieter, as the phone call is important for Mommy’s business. She is ignored.

There’s a very loud crash and I turn around and look her in the eyes.

Me: “Ma’am, you need to physically break up your children or I will hang up and call base police to remove all of you.”

She huffs and finally does so, separating the kids, who look like they’ll have bruises and swelling in the very near future.

The main branch finally gets in touch with the husband who is the main account holder and puts him on the line.

Me: “Hello, General, sir, I apologize for bothering you at work, but your wife is here and wants to raise your credit limit another $4,000, and we are calling you for approval.”

General: *Vehemently* “Tell her no! She’s putting me into the poor house! She’s already putting me in debt! The answer is no!”

I explain this to [Military Wife], who is absolutely not having it and grabs the phone.

Military Wife: “Listen, I want those earrings! I need bigger earrings! The answer is yes! I don’t care what you say! I deserve nice things!”

I don’t hear her husband’s answer, but the rage on her face says it all. Discovering that she is not going to get her way, she hangs up the phone.

Military Wife: “Just ignore him. Just raise it up anyway.”

Me: *Politely* “I’m sorry, but since he is the main account holder, he has to approve the credit increase, so my hands are tied. We won’t be able to grant your request.”

Military Wife: “But I’m the wife! I’m telling you to raise up that credit! You can do something!”

Me: “I’m sorry, but no, we can’t.”

Military Wife: “Fine! I’ll take my business elsewhere. There are other credit unions that will grant me an increase.”

She grabbed her sniffling kids and left in a huff. The office was in shambles, and it was a wonder there was no blood anywhere.

Sadly, I’m all too familiar with scenarios like these. I can’t begin to tell you how many soldiers return overseas and discover that their wives (soon-to-be ex-wives) have run up their credit and put them in debt while they were away fighting.

This is a story told by my still-living grandpa. In 1942, at the age of eighteen, he was conscripted into the airforce’s Military Police (MP) to guard the perimeter of the airbase being lent to the British, and a few years later, in 1946, after my grandpa was promoted to Sergeant, the British left and in came the Americans.

It was during this time of transition that an unmarked car approached the main gate, which was manned by Grandpa and two young MPs. The driver demanded, in English, to enter. The poor MP that answered first didn’t speak a drop of English, so he called for my grandpa, who by then had a good grasp of it.

Grandpa: “Good morning, sir. How may I help you?”

Driver: “Open the g**d*** gate!”

Grandpa: “Sure, as soon as you show me some ID, your entry permit, and the vehicle’s entry permit—”

Driver: “I’m ordering you to open this gate or I’m getting you court-martialed.”

Of course, Grandpa didn’t find this very funny. He ordered the MPs to detain him for investigation, which they did after a short, insult-filled struggle with the driver that ended when an MP punched him in the eye and knocked him out. The patrol car took him into the MPs’ Station.

After a few hours, my grandpa was summoned to the Base Commander’s Office, where the Portuguese Colonel, the British Colonel, and the driver were waiting. The British Colonel asked, in Portuguese, what had happened. Grandpa showed his report, which was cosigned by Grandpa and the other MPs. The Portuguese Colonel pointed to the driver and said, in English:

Portuguese Colonel: “I want you to meet Major [Driver] of the USAF. He came in advance of the rest of the Americans to help in the transition.”

Driver: “Why didn’t you obey when I gave you a direct order, soldier?”

Grandpa: “You didn’t have authority for it, sir.”

Driver: “What the h*** do you mean?”

Grandpa: “An unknown, un-uniformed man, in an unmarked car, refusing to show papers to gate guards? You’re lucky we didn’t order you beaten.”

The British and Portuguese Colonels dismissed my grandpa. He later found out that they chewed the Major’s a**.

When the rest of the American forces arrived, a sign was posted at the gate that said, in English: “Until you enter, the Gate Sergeant is God. No uniform, no papers, no entry.”

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