New hire Panama City Beach - Page 3
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  1. #21
    Unregistered
    Guest
    Quote Originally Posted by Unregistered View Post
    I am considering a transfer to a line of work that is much less boring, and the equipment and the opponents you have listed intrigues me. I would like to visit your facility, and view your training grounds. The whole mall gig is getting old, and I feel less and less appreciated at our retail center. What I am trying to say is, does your agency have room for a few good men? Another fearless crusader, to watch over the safety of the halfwitted masses? I believe that my tac-team may be able to continue without me, I hate to leave them at the mercy of the dimwit crowd, but that op will be finished out of my jurisdiction one way or the other. The PD has dealt with the gangs long enough, they should be able to keep their heads above surface should I cease my endless pursuit of them, but I just have to wonder if working ops on a traveling freelance basis once again wouldn’t be just the thing to rejuvanate my career.

    I wondered.

    But then again I think of the mayors nephew, his face distored with tears and terror, the GAP employees who asked for my autograph, and had to settle for a cover identity’s signature, the flashbangs, and their acrid scent, the small of napalm in the evening breeze, as I crouch behind a shopping cart in the parking lot, the target practice with my dearest comrades and friends, the members of my teams, and our live fire exercises-Can I leave it all behind? should I?

    I hear Panama City Beach is nice this time of year.
    Yo no like Orlando. They not treat new Lt nice.

  2. #22
    Unregistered
    Guest
    Quote Originally Posted by Unregistered View Post
    Run far far away from this place and don’t look back
    Best advise you can get.

  3. #23
    Unregistered
    Guest
    Quote Originally Posted by Unregistered View Post
    Nobody in nwf works off duty unless it is at an academy

    How do you know what nwf does on off duty time. Some use they undercover car for vitamin deliveries at work. Why can’t they just zip by on their way to.. we’ll.. to work I suppose. Can I let my bo ride with me cause he works for the state.

  4. #24
    Unregistered
    Guest
    Quote Originally Posted by Unregistered View Post
    How do you know what nwf does on off duty time. Some use they undercover car for vitamin deliveries at work. Why can’t they just zip by on their way to.. we’ll.. to work I suppose. Can I let my bo ride with me cause he works for the state.
    why do oompa loompa stay dry snitchin on the womens

  5. #25
    Unregistered
    Guest
    So the whole issue is it was brought to work in a state car? So are we making against policy for all the civilian staff to sell Girl Scout cookies? How about the tampa AA2 that had a whole convenience store running out of the office. Where does it stop.

  6. #26
    Unregistered
    Guest
    I am now thinking that the best thing to do is to have my wife make an “undervest” with pouches front and rear for the additional plates. This would let me have three plates in front (probably too hot and two in back. What I’m also asking her to do is to sew in a sleeve for an ASP collapsible baton. Right now I’m taping the ASP to my right calf (the left calf is where I have my G27).It’s okay for me to talk about my job, as long as I’m not specific. I am the Sergeant of a three-man Rapid Tactical Force at one of America’s largest indoor retail shopping areas. [And here the myth begins”] Although there are typically between fifteen and twenty normal security officers working the beat there, we decided a while ago that it would be best to have a specilized force for violent individuals. We use modified electric vehicles and can be anywhere on a given floor within eight and a half minutes.Naturally, the regular security people are unarmed. We “RTFers”, by arrangement with the local police, carry high-strength OC spray and batons. If we have a full tactical alert and permission from the local LEOs we also have a Mossberg 500 with less-lethal rounds and two K-frame Smith .38s loaded with 158gr. LRN.Basically, the situation is that we get the call, we lock up the situation, put everything five by five, and cordon the area until the local authorities arrive. We’re cops, we just don’t get the glory. [Somehow, I imagine the real police wouldn’t agree”]I am not permitted to carry Glocks on duty; however, when my wife picks me up from work I strap on the “Deadly Duo” of a 27 and 23, each with Bar-Sto .357 bbl.I am writing a proposal to replace our current Mossberg-Smith armament with the following:

    3) MP5K-PDW with red-dot sights;
    2) G36 rifles using SS109 rounds;
    3) Glock practical tacticles in .357 Sig
    1) PSG-1 using Fed Gold Medal .308
    1) Starlight scope for the PSG-1 in case we lose power in the building.
    3) Glock 27 backup guns
    3) Kahr P-9 holdouts
    I think this would make us capable of facing nearly any situation. The question is should I bring my gear to the interview? I want the selection committee to understand I am ready to roll!

    At this point, bullshit alarms started going off, and people started calling him on it. Here’s his response:

    Gecko45 writes:

  7. #27
    LeBoudin
    Guest
    The word “foreign” in the name French Foreign Legion does not refer to faraway battlegrounds. It refers to the Legion itself, which is a branch of the French Army commanded by French officers but built of volunteers from around the world. Last summer I came upon 20 of them on a grassy knoll on a farm in France near the Pyrenees. They were new recruits sitting back-to-back on two rows of steel chairs. They wore camouflage fatigues and face paint, and held French assault rifles. The chairs were meant to represent the benches in a helicopter flying into action—say, somewhere in Africa in the next few years to come. Two recruits who had been injured while running sat facing forward holding crutches. They were the pilots. Their job was to sit there and endure. The job of the others was to wait for the imaginary touchdown, then disembark from the imaginary helicopter and pretend to secure the imaginary landing zone. Those who charged into the imaginary tail rotor or committed some other blunder would have push-ups to do immediately, counting them off in phonetic French—uh, du, tra, katra, sank. If they ran out of vocabulary, they would have to start again. Eventually the recruits would stage a phased retreat back to their chairs, then take off, fly around for a while, and come in for another dangerous landing. The real lesson here was not about combat tactics. It was about do not ask questions, do not make suggestions, do not even think of that. Forget your civilian reflexes. War has its own logic. Be smart. For you the fighting does not require a purpose. It does not require your allegiance to France. The motto of the Legion is Legio Patria Nostra. The Legion is our fatherland. This means we will accept you. We will shelter you. We may send you out to die. Women are not admitted. Service to the Legion is about simplifying men’s lives.

    Before eating, the recruits drank large field cups of water, and inverted the empty cups on their heads to demonstrate the achievement. A soldier came in to observe them. He was the platoon commander, Fred Boulanger, 36, a muscular Frenchman with a military bearing and an air of easy authority. Watching him watch the recruits, I asked how the training was going. He answered that the boat was sinking normally. It was a figure of speech. He knew from experience that the recruits were doing well enough. Boulanger was a non-commissioned adjudant, the equivalent of a warrant officer. He had been barred from the regular French Army because of troubles with the law when he was a teenager, and so had joined the Foreign Legion under the identity, initially, of a Francophone Swiss. He had risen through the Legion’s ranks during a 17-year career, most recently in French Guiana, where he had shown a particular aptitude for the jungle and had excelled in leading long patrols across some of the most difficult terrain on earth—thriving in conditions that cause even strong men to decline. After two years there, on the hunt for gold miners who are infiltrating from Brazil, Boulanger was reassigned to France. It should have been a glorious homecoming, but just before leaving Guiana, Boulanger had roughed up a superior officer. For this he was being disciplined.

    Boulanger now found himself on the farm, adjusting to garrison life and trying to steer this batch of recruits through their introduction to the Legion. On the one hand, he needed to make legionnaires of them. On the other, he had already lost five to desertion. Not too soft, not too hard—that was the pressure he felt, and with a sense that his own future was on the line. A young Scotsman named Smith, who had been cashiered from the British Army for failing a drug test, was his current concern. Smith was at risk because he missed a new girlfriend back home. For his part, Boulanger missed the jungle. Mostly what he did here was to supervise the other instructors. The only direct contact with the recruits reserved systematically for him was a French-language lesson that he taught daily in the multi-purpose room.

    For obvious reasons, the teaching of rudimentary French is a preoccupation in the Foreign Legion. One morning I attended a class. The recruits had arranged the tables into a U, around which they sat, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for Boulanger’s arrival. Each of the native French speakers was formally responsible for the progress of two or three nonspeakers and would be held accountable for their performance.

    On a whiteboard at the front of the room, Boulanger had written a list of words in French to be copied down: more, less, high, low, on, under, inside, outside, interior, exterior, ahead, behind, small, large, thin, fat. Beside that he had written: Morning (Shave) Breakfast. Noon Evening Eat. To wash yourself. To shave. Write Read Speak. Buy Pay. Boulanger walked into the room holding a pointer. Standing ramrod-straight, he led the class through conjugations of the verbs to be and to have. “I am, you are, he is,” they said in ragged unison. “We have, you have, they have.”

    He said, “You will learn French fast because I am not your mother.”

    Motioning with his pointer, he whistled a recruit to the front of the class. Boulanger pointed at his head. The class said, “Hair!”

    “Repeat!”

    “Hair!”

    Nose, eye, one eye, two eyes, ear, chin, mouth, teeth, lips, tongue, cheek, neck, shoulder, repeat! He began whistling individual recruits to their feet for answers. Arm, elbow, hand, wrist, thumb—not la thumb, le thumb, it’s masculine! He selected a New Zealander and indicated the man’s stomach. The New Zealander stood and mumbled something indistinct. Boulanger whistled the New Zealander’s Senegalese tutor to his feet, and said to him, “We learned this last time. Why does he not know it?”

    The Senegalese said, “He learned it, sir, but he forgot it.”

    Boulanger gave both men 30 push-ups. No one thought he was being capricious. He had a gift for empathetic command. Skull, foot, balls, repeat! He directed a recruit to jump onto a table. “He is on the table,” he said. He directed another to crawl underneath. “He is under the table,” he said. These were not men who had excelled in school. Boulanger told them to take a break to practice what they had learned. He left for a smoke. When he returned he said quietly, “Outside,” and the recruits stampeded to comply. A dirt track led to an upper field. He said, “Go to the track!” They ran to it. He said, “Where are you?” They shouted, “We are on the track!” He directed them into a hedgerow. “We are in the hedgerow!” He ordered one man to walk across a clearing. What is he doing? “He is walking across the clearing!” He ordered all the others into a ditch. “We are in the ditch!”

    Morning, afternoon, evening, night. There were tactical exercises during which the recruits advanced in confusion through forest and field, shooting off blanks and suffering scores of imaginary casualties for their errors. There were parade-ground exercises during which they learned the strange, slow cadence of the Legion’s ceremonial march, and the lyrics to meaningless Legion songs. There were runs, short and long. There were weapon-disassembly-and-cleaning classes. And there were endless housekeeping chores, the tedious corvées that constitute much of garrison life. During one of these intervals the unhappy Scotsman named Smith approached me with a mop in his hand and asked for news from the outside. I mentioned something about French elections and war, but what he meant was the latest soccer scores. I told him I could not help him there. We talked while he mopped. He missed his girl, yeah, and he missed his pub. He called the British Army the best in the world and said he would return happily if only it would have him back. By comparison, he said, the Foreign Legion had no sense of humor. I laughed for the obvious reason that the Legion, by comparison, had taken him in.

  8. #28
    Unregistered
    Guest
    Cool story Brah

  9. #29
    Unregistered
    Guest
    Quote Originally Posted by LeBoudin View Post
    The word “foreign” in the name French Foreign Legion does not refer to faraway battlegrounds. It refers to the Legion itself, which is a branch of the French Army commanded by French officers but built of volunteers from around the world. Last summer I came upon 20 of them on a grassy knoll on a farm in France near the Pyrenees. They were new recruits sitting back-to-back on two rows of steel chairs. They wore camouflage fatigues and face paint, and held French assault rifles. The chairs were meant to represent the benches in a helicopter flying into action—say, somewhere in Africa in the next few years to come. Two recruits who had been injured while running sat facing forward holding crutches. They were the pilots. Their job was to sit there and endure. The job of the others was to wait for the imaginary touchdown, then disembark from the imaginary helicopter and pretend to secure the imaginary landing zone. Those who charged into the imaginary tail rotor or committed some other blunder would have push-ups to do immediately, counting them off in phonetic French—uh, du, tra, katra, sank. If they ran out of vocabulary, they would have to start again. Eventually the recruits would stage a phased retreat back to their chairs, then take off, fly around for a while, and come in for another dangerous landing. The real lesson here was not about combat tactics. It was about do not ask questions, do not make suggestions, do not even think of that. Forget your civilian reflexes. War has its own logic. Be smart. For you the fighting does not require a purpose. It does not require your allegiance to France. The motto of the Legion is Legio Patria Nostra. The Legion is our fatherland. This means we will accept you. We will shelter you. We may send you out to die. Women are not admitted. Service to the Legion is about simplifying men’s lives.

    Before eating, the recruits drank large field cups of water, and inverted the empty cups on their heads to demonstrate the achievement. A soldier came in to observe them. He was the platoon commander, Fred Boulanger, 36, a muscular Frenchman with a military bearing and an air of easy authority. Watching him watch the recruits, I asked how the training was going. He answered that the boat was sinking normally. It was a figure of speech. He knew from experience that the recruits were doing well enough. Boulanger was a non-commissioned adjudant, the equivalent of a warrant officer. He had been barred from the regular French Army because of troubles with the law when he was a teenager, and so had joined the Foreign Legion under the identity, initially, of a Francophone Swiss. He had risen through the Legion’s ranks during a 17-year career, most recently in French Guiana, where he had shown a particular aptitude for the jungle and had excelled in leading long patrols across some of the most difficult terrain on earth—thriving in conditions that cause even strong men to decline. After two years there, on the hunt for gold miners who are infiltrating from Brazil, Boulanger was reassigned to France. It should have been a glorious homecoming, but just before leaving Guiana, Boulanger had roughed up a superior officer. For this he was being disciplined.

    Boulanger now found himself on the farm, adjusting to garrison life and trying to steer this batch of recruits through their introduction to the Legion. On the one hand, he needed to make legionnaires of them. On the other, he had already lost five to desertion. Not too soft, not too hard—that was the pressure he felt, and with a sense that his own future was on the line. A young Scotsman named Smith, who had been cashiered from the British Army for failing a drug test, was his current concern. Smith was at risk because he missed a new girlfriend back home. For his part, Boulanger missed the jungle. Mostly what he did here was to supervise the other instructors. The only direct contact with the recruits reserved systematically for him was a French-language lesson that he taught daily in the multi-purpose room.

    For obvious reasons, the teaching of rudimentary French is a preoccupation in the Foreign Legion. One morning I attended a class. The recruits had arranged the tables into a U, around which they sat, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for Boulanger’s arrival. Each of the native French speakers was formally responsible for the progress of two or three nonspeakers and would be held accountable for their performance.

    On a whiteboard at the front of the room, Boulanger had written a list of words in French to be copied down: more, less, high, low, on, under, inside, outside, interior, exterior, ahead, behind, small, large, thin, fat. Beside that he had written: Morning (Shave) Breakfast. Noon Evening Eat. To wash yourself. To shave. Write Read Speak. Buy Pay. Boulanger walked into the room holding a pointer. Standing ramrod-straight, he led the class through conjugations of the verbs to be and to have. “I am, you are, he is,” they said in ragged unison. “We have, you have, they have.”

    He said, “You will learn French fast because I am not your mother.”

    Motioning with his pointer, he whistled a recruit to the front of the class. Boulanger pointed at his head. The class said, “Hair!”

    “Repeat!”

    “Hair!”

    Nose, eye, one eye, two eyes, ear, chin, mouth, teeth, lips, tongue, cheek, neck, shoulder, repeat! He began whistling individual recruits to their feet for answers. Arm, elbow, hand, wrist, thumb—not la thumb, le thumb, it’s masculine! He selected a New Zealander and indicated the man’s stomach. The New Zealander stood and mumbled something indistinct. Boulanger whistled the New Zealander’s Senegalese tutor to his feet, and said to him, “We learned this last time. Why does he not know it?”

    The Senegalese said, “He learned it, sir, but he forgot it.”

    Boulanger gave both men 30 push-ups. No one thought he was being capricious. He had a gift for empathetic command. Skull, foot, balls, repeat! He directed a recruit to jump onto a table. “He is on the table,” he said. He directed another to crawl underneath. “He is under the table,” he said. These were not men who had excelled in school. Boulanger told them to take a break to practice what they had learned. He left for a smoke. When he returned he said quietly, “Outside,” and the recruits stampeded to comply. A dirt track led to an upper field. He said, “Go to the track!” They ran to it. He said, “Where are you?” They shouted, “We are on the track!” He directed them into a hedgerow. “We are in the hedgerow!” He ordered one man to walk across a clearing. What is he doing? “He is walking across the clearing!” He ordered all the others into a ditch. “We are in the ditch!”

    Morning, afternoon, evening, night. There were tactical exercises during which the recruits advanced in confusion through forest and field, shooting off blanks and suffering scores of imaginary casualties for their errors. There were parade-ground exercises during which they learned the strange, slow cadence of the Legion’s ceremonial march, and the lyrics to meaningless Legion songs. There were runs, short and long. There were weapon-disassembly-and-cleaning classes. And there were endless housekeeping chores, the tedious corvées that constitute much of garrison life. During one of these intervals the unhappy Scotsman named Smith approached me with a mop in his hand and asked for news from the outside. I mentioned something about French elections and war, but what he meant was the latest soccer scores. I told him I could not help him there. We talked while he mopped. He missed his girl, yeah, and he missed his pub. He called the British Army the best in the world and said he would return happily if only it would have him back. By comparison, he said, the Foreign Legion had no sense of humor. I laughed for the obvious reason that the Legion, by comparison, had taken him in.

    Copy paste repeat

  10. #30
    Unregistered
    Guest
    Quote Originally Posted by Unregistered View Post
    Copy paste repeat
    Y’all like the clearance item at the second hand store ain’t nobody wants.

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