Motorpool Pliers and the Myth of the Untouchable (Editors’ Choice for Prose)

SSG M looked like he shopped at Baby Gap. Shirts two sizes too small, muscles spilling out like he was trying to scare children at the PX. His arms always seemed on the verge of tearing the seams, a walking billboard for the gym and the grunt life.

Our Rambo. Built for war. Untouchable.

Except he wasn’t.

By then, my back was wrecked. Discs ground down to nothing. The medic said, Go get it looked at. So, I did. The doc gave me pills, twisted me up like some backwoods chiropractor, and made my spine crack like glow sticks. Didn’t help. Hurt going in, hurt going out.

That’s when M hopped up on the table. Limping. Said something had to happen. Pulled off his boot, and a smell rolled out that could’ve hidden your tracks from bloodhounds. Straight biohazard. It hit like burning rubber left in the sun, an all-out assault that stung the nose and curled the stomach—sour milk and bad French cheese riding shotgun in the heat. We gagged, laughed, and waited for the reveal. Toe looked fine. Nothing dramatic. But M had lived with it two weeks, pain chewing through him like rats in the dark. It needs to come off, he said.

Doc looked at him, looked at us. We’re going to pull it. Take his weapons.

Normally, 1SG loved this man-card stupidity. But even he hesitated. You sure about this? He asked. M handed over his rifle without a word. That was all the answer anyone needed.

Doc had him lie down. Tossed me two OD green blankets. Called for the MSOT team sergeant. He said, Bring a couple more guys. I don’t feel like getting punched tonight.

Soon there were eight of us, one on each corner, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Holding blankets tight over a man who could deadlift us all. Waiting. Bracing.

The doc pulled a scalpel and made a couple of quick cuts. M let out a string of ‘Holy shits’ and ‘WTFs’, sweating, teeth grinding. Doc gave him one last out. You sure you want to keep going?

M didn’t blink. Pull the damn thing.

Alright, gents. Hold tight.

Doc reached for pliers that looked like they came straight from the motorpool—locking jaws, grease stains, the kind of tool you’d use to fix a Humvee, not a human. Slid them under the nail and yanked like hell.

M screamed. Not a grunt, not a hiss. A scream so loud it almost summoned Zeus. In the middle of it he did a sit-up that could’ve set a record, hauling four grown men off the floor before they crashed back down in a pile of OD green.

And then it was over.

Doc stood at the foot of the table, motorpool pliers in one hand, bloody toenail in the other. M lay limp, sweat-soaked, chest heaving. The Rambo guy, undone by his own foot.

When people ask me what it was like, they want firefights, near-death, kill counts. I could tell them. But the truth is closer to this: eight soldiers holding blankets, laughing and gagging while a doc ripped Rambo’s toenail out.

Moments like that made the near-death easy.