Okay, I actually got a PM reminding me to tell the tale.
Sinai Peninsula, Egypt.
We had portapotties with a drum cut out as a receptacle, and periodically had to pull the drum and incinerate the contents.
There was always a guy stuck in a guard tower, staring at desert, bored.
Four months in, I'm bored, and somebody did a slipshod job of handling the task. We had a strict gas-diesel ratio for this, that was out the window.
I pour an enormous amount of diesel into the can, and pick up the 5 gallon can of gas. I start pouring.
Apparently, there was still an ember going in there.
I see a flash, feel searing pain, and fire. Lot's of fire. I'm a man of action. I instinctively run toward the sandbag wall, calculate the leap, drop the gas can, and jump.
Perfect combat roll, pop up, grin, and notice my arm's on fire. Beat it out.
I spin, survey, and see the trail of fire making it's way to the gas can, and inside.
I duck, like in the movies, waiting for the explosion. It never comes. The can just burns, steel turning red.
Red, deforming steel gas can, billowing black smoke, flaming turds everywhere, the tower guard applauding wildly. My Platoon Leader staring at me long and hard, shaking his head at my blistered arm.
Please don't get a flamethrower....
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