The other day at work I was assigned to follow a guy over to the repair shop where the mechanics were installing a new something or other on this Paladin–which is sort of like a tank with a 155mm howitzer on it (but don’t call it a tank to the crew). We got to the shop, and he was giving me tour of the vehicle.

We climbed in the back, and I was just barely able to stand up inside. I looked around a bit, and marveled at how many rounds they could fit in such a small space. It was a lot. Soon after that, I crouched down and sort of crab-walked out the door. I immediately stood up and heard a resounding thud.

I’d forgotten the back of the darn Paladin was only a little over 5 feet off the ground, and the top of my bald head had connected with it soundly.

“Uhhhh…” I said weakly, stooping and walking forward a little. I stood up again, and found out that to my detriment, I had not quite cleared the back, and this time, my already tender noggin was greeted by a corner of something.

“Aw, s**t,” I said, reaching for my mushy skull. My hand came away bloody.

“Did you f***ing cut yourself?” my coworker asked. “You’ve been here f***ing five minutes.”

“Well, I uh…”

“You’re bleeding, you a****le!”

I could feel blood running down the back of my neck. “Yeah,” I said.

“Let me get you a rag. And f***in’ duck next time, you dumb s**t.”

He gave me a rag, and I had to stand there with mechanics crawling all over the place with a shop rag plastered to my giant bald head. It was pretty embarassing. And on my first day in the shop. I must have heard about three hundred variations of “dude, you gotta be careful. These things aren’t made of pillows.”

Indeed. Now I have an awesome bruise on the crown of my head.

The Army uses some really good steel.