With the sun beginning to dip beneath the horizon, the low-quality lights in the parking lot of your barracks building kick on, casting shadows that somehow make it harder to see than it is without the lights. As you make your way back up the sidewalk to return to your room for a laid back night of Tinder, masturbation and daydreaming about slinging rock with the boys back on the block, you hear the telltale whine of an emergency vehicle. No less than 6 MP vehicles come screaming into the parking lot, causing you to clench your butthole tighter than a recently kidnapped chai boy prospect.

 

 

A crowd has gathered outside now, with a consortium of barracks lawyers discussing possible ramifications of this event. Now, the BC pulls into his designated parking spot in his 1993 Toyota Tercel that he refuses to trade in. Phones start to ring. Your TL calls you to his room, and you begin to make your way, excited given the commotion and with only a slight whiff of dread. As if a drive-by at the barracks across the parking lot will somehow never sink its repercussion tentacles into your world like hentai porn.

 

“Health and comfort, tomorrow morning.” Fuck. The scramble begins – like the final kickoff of that wild Cal-Stanford game in ‘82. Poor trumpeters and bass drummers getting laid out by D1 linebackers eager to make a play.

 

 

You have enough contraband in your room to do 8 trips to SARPs and a year’s worth of counseling and brig time. You need to get this shit out and get it out now. But how, you may ask? Fear not, for this oddly specific situation is not fictional, but real. And your boys here lived through it, with minimal damage to their careers and reputations.

Tradecraft, friends. Tradecraft is the key to success. Fortunately for you, you aren’t going up against sociopathic and highly trained (though not highly literate) Bluecaps of the Soviet NKVD. You’re only up against your command and let’s be honest, sins far greater than smuggling items on the BEQ blacklist have gotten past them.

 

Know your routes. If the CO is sitting on the front door, use the back door. Tying knots could be a useful skill if you really get in a jam and need to fast rope down to first deck to get your date out of the bricks before capture. Be advised though, upper body strength is not a given amongst local trailer trash that you scooped up at a country bar out in town, so have alternate and tertiary plans to exfil. The swamp behind the barracks can be a useful place to make your boy’s fiancée wait out the sweep.

Use concealment. Spanking paddles and all of your other goodies can easily fit inside guitar cases, so it might be a good idea to befriend that redneck wannabe country singer in 3rd squad.

Obscure. For this, you need to pop some kind of metaphorical smoke. Let’s say the noose is tightening around you like Saddam and you can’t think of a way out of this. Intentionally leave out some piece of minor contraband, like porn or too many bottles of beer in your micro fridge. This will make the searcher gloat as they lecture you about the unreal perils of beating off and “alcoholism.” This will also create a sense of accomplishment for the searcher, and will hopefully lead to them leaving your room without further molestation. However, this can be dangerous if you aren’t careful to clean up any crumbs you may have left out that could lead higher to some of your juicier secrets, so cover your tracks.

Airtight Alibi. Practice that shit. Don’t make it so elaborate that it’s impossible to follow and don’t drag anyone down with you if you don’t have to. Remember, your opponent has been in for at least 10 years, his/her ability to think quickly and clearly is severely impacted by their desire to say, “behoove of you,” and to instill some bullshit time honored wisdom.

At the end of the day, you know the rules. Deny everything, admit nothing, and make counter accusations.

Bertier and Casper

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