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.

A few years ago, I’m working for a relatively small but publicly traded company. If you’re not in their tiny corner of industry, you’ve never heard of them.

They go public, buy an even smaller company, and (surprise!) we’re suddenly in the DoD contracting business.

For those unfamiliar, the US Department of Defense has strict rules for contractors: profit limits, cost tracking, and, relevant here, everyone on a DoD project must charge their time to specific project codes so they can compare actual vs. estimated costs.

Our company’s brilliant idea? Instead of just having the fifty-or-so people actually working DoD contracts fill out timecards, EVERY SINGLE SALARIED EMPLOYEE (over a thousand people) now has to submit a weekly timecard.

For 95% of us, that meant charging 100% of our time to “Non-Defense Overhead.” Most folks just put “eight hours/day” no matter what, since no one tracked hours down to the minute.

Then, new state legislation comes in: An hour of sick leave per forty hours worked.

Most people ignored it. I didn’t. My role was very specialized; only two of us in the company did it, and the other guy lived overseas.

I start logging my actual hours. After a month, I realize my PTO accrual hasn’t changed.

Me: “Hey, [HR Drone], you’re not adjusting my PTO based on actual hours worked.”

HR Drone: “You’re salaried. You get paid for forty hours regardless.”

Me: “That’s not how the new law works.”

Blank stare.

HR Drone: “We’ll get back to you.”

Two months later, still nothing. I’ve now got several colleagues logging actual hours too. We all travel internationally a lot, and per our state labor laws, travel time is considered work time (“place of rest to place of rest”).

That fall, a perfect storm: all of us traveling at once. Over 120-hour weeks. We’re giddy imagining the PTO.

Payday arrives… nothing. Back to HR.

HR Drone: “We’ll escalate this to the attorney.”

Weeks pass. Everyone’s fed up. Within five weeks, all of us put in our notice. I lose patience and email HR documenting everything, and copy in that I’ll go to the labor board if they don’t pay up.

Five minutes later, my phone rings.

HR Drone: “Why are you recording hours that way? You’re salaried!”

Me: “Because we have to fill out timecards.”

HR Drone: “Why not just put 8 hours a day like everyone else?”

Me: “That sounds like you’re asking me to falsify my timecard. The one I sign under penalty of prosecution.”

HR Drone: “… No, I just… why haven’t you brought this up before?”

Me: “I have. Twice. With you. It’s in the email I just sent. I assume the company’s attorney has told you of your obligations by now?”

HR Drone: “They… haven’t gotten back to me.”

Me: “Funny you mention that. I emailed our general counsel directly. Turns out my email was the first they’d heard of it. I’ve already resigned. I expect payment for all back-owed PTO, or I’ll file with L&I. They usually give you a week before they can demand up to triple damages.”

HR Drone: “…”

Me: “Email me when you’ve decided on a path forward.” *Click.*

A week later, I get my PTO, plus a little extra. One of my buddies reports them to the labor board anyway, and word is HR got completely gutted, all the way up to the VP.