This story took place in the 1980s, so the conversations are going to be paraphrased since it has been a really long time.

I was attending college, and had a professor who was so starched, I feared that his body would develop stress fractures.

Professor: “…and I will not be accepting any papers that are not typed up on a typewriter.”

Student: “My computer has a dot matrix printer. Will that be okay?”

Professor: “No fancy shmancy dot matrix printouts will not be accepted. Typewriter, or accept a zero.”

I stood up with a smile.

Me: “So, for anyone wondering, I’m [My Name], and I’m a Navy Chief Yeoman.”

For those not familiar with Navy ranks, this is basically an admin and personnel specialist.

Me: “At work, I have an IBM printer that is based on an IBM Selectric electric typewriter. I also have WordPerfect, WordStar, and IBM Word installed on my computer. If anyone wants to compose anything on their computers using any of those word processing programs, feel free to do so and give me the paper on disk. I can print using Prestige Elite (12 pitch), Courier (10 pitch), or several other typefaces. I’ll get you sorted within minutes.”

The professor was not happy with me and made some rather not-so-veiled threats about filing a plagiarism complaint or accusations of cheating with the Dean. This was, of course, nonsense, since I would not be doing any writing, just printing. I clapped back.

Me: “If you want to play silly games, I can play them too, Professor. And as a Navy Chief, I have received formal training on how to be an utter b*****d and a*****e. It will also be your word against the entire classroom of witnesses.”

Many of my classmates took me up on my offer, and though I didn’t ask for it, students were more than happy to help pay for the ribbon and paper used. My work had no problem at all once I explained and handed over the money when the printer was used.

The professor spent the semester looking as though he had been weaned on lemons and pickle juice.

I am the author of these stories:

When I was stationed in Keflavik, Iceland as a hospital corpsman (basically a Navy medic) in the early 2000s, I stood EMT duty in addition to my normal job. If you were on duty on Saturday, the EMT and the ambulance driver would have to drive to the military passenger terminal at the airport to meet the medical evacuation jet at about midnight.

The jet made a circuit throughout Europe, picking up and dropping off patients who were flying either to or from Andrews AFB for treatment at Walter Reed and the naval hospital in Bethesda. The jet usually flew in from an Air Force base in England, dropped off and picked up patients in Iceland, then went on to Spain, the Azores, and then to the U.S.

For the context of the story below, it is important to know two things. First, the UK’s time zone is known in the military as Zulu time and is where all other time zones in the world are calculated from. Second is that Iceland is in the same time zone as the UK. The UK time zone juts way west to accommodate Iceland, and the base was on the western side of the island, where realistically it should probably be in the time zone two hours behind the UK.

One Saturday night, when I was on duty, I was in the terminal waiting for the patients to come off the plane so we could transport them to the hospital, when one of the flight crew (an Air Force Captain) came over to me and we had the following conversation:

Aircrew Guy: “Hey, buddy, what time is it?”

Me: *Looking at my watch.* “It is 2352.”

Aircrew Guy: *Looking at his watch, then looking at me oddly.* “No, it isn’t.”

Me: *Looking at my watch again.* “Okay, maybe it’s more like 2353?”

Aircrew Guy: “No, that’s Zulu time. What time is it here?”

Me: “It’s 2353, we’re in Zulu time.”

Aircrew Guy: [looking frustrated]: We can’t be in Zulu, we took off from England, which is in Zulu time, and flew northwest for three hours, what time is it in this country?”

Me: “2353! Iceland is in Zulu time! It is 2353 right now!”

The aircrew guy glared at me, walked off, and asked someone nearby what time it was, but they told him the same thing. He then looked back at me, shook his head, and wandered away.

I wanted to yell at him and ask how he didn’t know what time zone he was in; shouldn’t that be part of your preflight brief? And why did he not believe me? Did he think I was just making up a random time to mess with him?

A guy comes in and asks for some pregnancy stretch mark cream.

Me: “It’s right here. How far along is she? If she’s still a few months off, we’re doing a 3 for 2 on this cream right now so—”

Customer: “—ah, no, she’s due very soon. She’s ten months pregnant.”

Me: “Ten?”

Customer: “Yeah, she says the doctor told her she’s got a delayed pregnancy, so it could take ten months, maybe even eleven!”

Me: “I… uhm.” *Trying to be civil.* “Well, I’ve never heard of that before.”

Customer: “Yeah, most people haven’t. It’s good timing for us, though, as I was deployed overseas until last week, so it’s good that the baby has been delayed.”

Me: “Deployed in the military?”

Customer: “Yeah! For the last ten months!”

Me: “Let me get you a military discount.”

Customer: “Thanks! Everyone is just so nice to me when they find out I’m gonna be a dad!”

Oh boy…

This happened back in the late 80s, during the times of The Troubles. I was living in Felixstowe, a coastal town in Suffolk, which is about as far away from Northern Ireland as you can go in England without getting your feet wet.

Despite that, we still had reminders of the dangers of the IRA and unattended bags, beyond the horrors we heard about in the news. For example, Felixstowe hosted the first major Conservative Party Conference after the Brighton Hotel bombing. I still recall cycling to and from school for the week leading up to the conference, looking up at the shop roofs all along the high street, counting all the police snipers. Fortunately, nothing newsworthy happened, but teenage me still found it all quite fascinating.

Felixstowe is near a number of RAF and US Air Force bases, and some personnel lived off base in Felixstowe. Everyone who worked at the bases was briefed on the importance of bomb safety, particularly as car bombs were a known tactic of the IRA. Packages left next to your car were to be treated as dangerous.

So, when a member of staff from one of the bases left their house to see a backpack next to their car, they did the right thing and called the emergency services. The area was cordoned off, and the bomb squad attended. The way such potential devices were dealt with was by means of a controlled explosion: a remote-controlled vehicle would be driven towards it, and it would fire an explosive round at the package. I think they use the remote to move the package first, to minimise what gets damaged? After it has been declared safe, Forensics can then sift through what’s left to find out who was the responsible party.

Which is why, the following day, a local radio presenter announced that the student who didn’t notice when his bag fell off his moped had possibly the best excuse ever. “I’m sorry, but my maths homework was blown up by the bomb squad!”

I’m at a friend-of-a-friend’s lively house party. I’m hanging out in the living room when one of the guys I know through some other friend’s circles starts talking loudly.

Acquaintance: “Yeah, back when I was in the Gulf War, we had this one mission—”

Me: “Wait, what?”

Acquaintance: “Yeah, I served in the Gulf. Rough times, man.”

He turns to see me, actually looking at me for the first time, and looks shocked. I don’t think he was expecting me or my friendship group to be there. Y’see, we know him. My other friend speaks up.

My Friend: “Except, dude… you were born in 1979. The Gulf War was from 1991 to ’92. When we were in seventh grade.”

The room goes quiet.

My Friend: “Congrats on being a thirteen-year-old combat veteran.”

Half the immediate group bursts out laughing, the other half just stares awkwardly. My acquaintance suddenly remembers he needs to “check on something in the kitchen” and disappears for the rest of the night.