The Pig

My first year on Drummond Island taught me a lot about ES techniques and procedures, but the most useful things I learned had little to do with emergency services. A great example of this is the pig. It was one of those things that have nothing to do with your mission, and yet become a defining moment for the cadets involved.

Drummond Island is at the northern tip of Lake Huron and off the eastern edge of the Upper Peninsula (that would be the one that doesn’t look like a mitten). All of the Ranger candidates had to meet in Pontiac in the Southeastern corner of the Lower Peninsula. We rode a very old, retired Air Force bus all the way to the island. The lack of air conditioning in the eighty-five degree heat was made even worse by the fact that half the windows were stuck closed. The seats were the same as you would see in any school bus. With the bus topping out at a speed of 45 miles an hour, the trip was long, uncomfortable and very boring.

The staff tried to motivate us for a while. We sang every Jodie that the staff knew, including the ones that would have freaked out our parents and the Colonel. The staff also quizzed us on ES topics and general CAP knowledge, but after a few hours, they simply ran out of ideas. We stopped about halfway up and bivouacked at a SAREX that was going on, but that just meant we had two boring days instead of one.

On the second day, the driver asked one of the staff to go into his gear and get something for him to munch on. That’s when they found it. Unbeknownst to the driver, a girl back home had removed his socks and shoved a Miss Piggy doll into his butt pack. For a few short minutes, the staff just kidded him about it, but then one of them had a flash of genius.

“We’ve been infiltrated by a communist pig!” he shouted. Now in 1980, the world was at the height of the cold war. The Solidarity union in Poland was just starting to break down communism there. Ronald Reagan was running on a platform of a more aggressive stance with the forces of the Eastern Block. The peace movement was protesting the Neutron bomb. The US and USSR had ships and aircraft collide almost on a regular basis as they played a very dangerous game of “Nuclear Chicken”. Being CAP cadets, we were inclined to be very patriotic and a bit rabid about the whole commie thing.

The effect of the announced infiltration was amazing. Instantly everyone became excited about the joke. Some cadets up front already knew what he was talking about, but those of us towards the back were straining to see what was going on up there. One of the cadet officers, brandishing the Miss Piggy doll, strode down the aisle and explained that we had been infiltrated and that we had to make an example of the spy as a deterrent to future enemy operatives.

The staff first marked the pig’s chest with a black magic marker. When they were done, a hammer and sickle was clearly displayed on Miss Communist Piggy’s chest. Next, they pretended to torture and interrogate her for about ten minutes.

Next we heard one of the staff yell “Pass her around!” She began to be thrown around the bus. The staff made sure that everyone was included in the fun and threw her to the cadets who wouldn’t normally join in for whatever reason. They did it in an informal and seemingly random way that did not make it obvious what they were doing. It just seemed natural that the pig eventually made it to every cadet on the bus.

After everyone had a chance to throw her, the staff produced some 550 cord and fashioned a noose. Miss Communist Piggy was then strung up from the handrail in the ceiling for the rest of the trip (much to the driver’s relief since he had worried about her hitting him in the back of the head when she was flying around the bus).

When we had arrived at the island, Miss Communist Piggy was instantly forgotten as we entered one of the most exciting places most of us would ever know. The only reminder of our little fun on the bus was the pig hanging in Band Aid Billy’s pop-up trailer. We figured that was where she would remain. As with so many things up there, we were wrong.

At the beginning of the second week, when morale was at a real low, I had my first urge to just give up and go home. I knew that some of the higher ranking cadets resented me being made the assistant team leader. In social situations, I was normally a pretty shy guy despite my overcompensating with brash humor. The resentment from some of the older guys just made it harder to get over my shyness.

The staff and schedule had been relentless. Hard physical labor, extensive PT, dehydration, not enough food, or sleep had left me a physical wreck. My lazy lifestyle prior to coming to the Island was really hurting me now. The classes and exercises had been the best I had ever had, but it was a real struggle to learn and remember what was taught. I wasn’t sure I was going to pass this school. In fact, I wasn’t sure I could hack another twenty-four hours.

Then we found out that rifle and pistol practice was scheduled. Everyone perked up at this announcement. It was something new and exciting. Each of us would fire one clip from a .45 automatic and two clips from an M-1 carbine. In later years we would also have .22 bolt-action rifles so that we could earn our NRA marksman badge.

The senior member in charge of the range (a police officer) taught an extensive class on firearm safety, after which we marched out to the firing range. The range was simply a large foxhole with a backstop to tape our targets to. Alpha Team had punched a huge hole through the dolomite to make the foxhole the week before. The backstop was a stack of logs that our team had set up about 25 yards away. The hole was big enough for our whole eleven-man team to climb into.

As we settled into our hole, the range officer started to speak about the assets and statistics of the Colt .45 M1911 semi-automatic pistol. As we struggled to stay awake and pay attention, my ranger buddy nudged me and nodded his head toward the pile of logs. Tacked spread-eagle to the logs was Miss Communist Piggy!

Our team commander stated that we would each get one 7-round clip with which to take out the commie spy. Alpha team had not been able to hit her at all, and our LT expected us to do better. I had been assigned as assistant team leader, so I had to wait and go last. As I sat in the hole waiting my turn, I was secretly glad that nobody was hitting the pig. While I was pretty good with a rifle, I had never even held a real pistol before. The last thing I wanted to do was embarrass myself in front of my men by screwing up with the pistol.

Once my turn came, I climbed out of the hole and looked at Miss Piggy. The log had its bark chipped away, but the doll had come through completely unscathed. She just hung there with that taunting smile on her face, proudly wearing the hammer and sickle on her chest.

The LT quietly explained to me that it was really hard to hit anything with an old beat up .45 at 25 yards. He also told me that this pistol fired a bit to the right. Glancing at the log again, I noticed that it had most of its damage to the right of the spy.

The range officer showed me how to hold a .45 and fire it without ripping off my thumbnail. He provided me with ear protection, slammed a steel GI helmet on my head, and then placed the pistol on the ground cloth we were using as a firing station.

Picking up the .45 and loading it, I once again glanced at the pig. She smiled defiantly back, knowing that fifteen of my friends had tried to take her out and failed. I was tired, grumpy, and sore. I was in no mood for having some pink piece of fur and stuffing make a fool out of me. I jacked a round into the chamber and assumed my shooting stance. I placed the front site right between her eyes, and then, remembering the advice of the LT, shifted my aim just to the left of her ear. I gently squeezed the trigger.

Even though I had just heard my entire team fire it, I was not prepared for the noise that a .45 makes. The huge weapon rose in my small hands until my arms and a cloud of smoke obscured the target. My ears were ringing, but I heard something else. It took me a moment to realize that it was my team cheering. Lowering the weapon, I checked out the spy. The right side of her face was gone, and some off her stuffing was still floating down to the ground. Looking back, I could see me team jumping around and giving each other the high five. The range officer yelled at them to settle down. He was a guy who took safety seriously.

I allowed myself a slight smile, and then took aim once again. Aiming a bit farther to the left, I fired again. This time I had better control and was able to immediately see the rest of her head turn into a white cloud of fluff. The commie pig had bought the farm!

Although it seems silly after all these years, I felt a wave of warmth and well-being come over me. While just twenty minutes before I was wondering if I really wanted to stay, I now felt like I could do anything. Feeling that I deserved to celebrate (and not wanting to push my luck and miss an aimed shot), I fired the five remaining rounds in rapid fire like I was John Wayne or something. Of course, I hit nothing but trees, but it was fun. It was almost as good as being cheered by my team.

After that, we all got to fire the carbines. Most of us had seen lots of World War II movies, as well as “The Green Berets”, so these weapons were a familiar site. With 15 round clips, we got to fire from the prone and kneeling positions. What a blast!

What I didn’t understand was why we would waste time and effort doing something so inane and antisocial as shooting at the pig. We could have just shot at paper targets like we did with the carbines. Later, when I was on staff, I finally came to the conclusion that the cadets had needed a “mental break”, and that the staff had been wise enough to jump on an unexpected opportunity.

We were under intense pressure to succeed in a difficult program. In fact, it was without a doubt one of the most difficult CAP activities at the time (At least at PJOC you had PJs running things and not 16 year old cadet officers). We were pushing ourselves and each other farther than anyone thought we could go. Probably farther than most thought we SHOULD go. We were already approaching the mental breakdown that we finally reached days later at the end of the “Death March”
We needed to get our mind away from what we were doing for a few minutes, or we would reach the point where we would have uncontrolled outbursts against the staff or each other. This little break from reality allowed us to come back to the training with a fresher perspective and with relieved tension.

The brilliant aspect of using the pig as the break is that it didn’t just give us a distraction for a few minutes. It also reinforced the other aspects of our training (teamwork, cadet leadership, and even military bearing and thinking). Everyone had been included in some way, even if it was only getting to catch and throw her once. Everyone got a shot at her too. The cadet leaders led all actions against the pig, so leadership and discipline were maintained.

The pig was also a common enemy that we could take our frustrations out on (instead of some actual person or entity). Learning to shoot properly was great, but letting us shoot at an “enemy” allowed us to have the safe emotional release that we all needed. I don’t remember anyone talking back to staff the entire two weeks, although I suspect that some of the cadets were picturing their team leader or the cadet commander when they blasted away at the pig.

There was another really important aspect to “The Pig” incident, but that will wait till next month.