Once upon a time...

 I think I should start this new thing, this blog, with a brief explanation of my chosen name. It references my first and favorite David Bowie album, but it is also a play on words concerning my name, my doubts about my sanity, and my younger days, hence lad. I will tell stories from what I consider a rather ridiculous life in this blog. I have lived a very varied life. I lived in ten different homes, in four other cities, two of them twice at separate intervals, and in three states, before I was eighteen. And I have stories about my adventures in each of them. I'm not going to bore you with my life story, though. I'm just going to give you what I think are the highlights. Primarily those that I, myself, find incredibly ridiculous. And there are a lot of them. Here is my favorite one from my Army days.

I was trained to be a helicopter mechanic, and my first employment was at a small airfield outside of Mainz-Finthen, Germany. We were a NATO unit. We were the guys that flew stuff we weren't allowed to talk about all over Europe. That means that most of our officers were young pilots and young pilots are some of the coolest people you might meet. So we were kind of lax on the whole Army thing. We just did our jobs and didn't care much for protocol. I was in heaven and didn't know it. Sure, I got into trouble now and again, but I expected that. I was a bit of a trouble-maker in my youth and too smart for my own good. I got along well and did a good job, so everything was good.

Every few months, we would have a thing called a muster. It was a chance to prove that we were real soldiers or something. They woke us up around three AM, and we had to go down to the hanger and do whatever silly thing we had to do. The beauty of those days was that everyone was so tired from getting there early; they would tell us to just go home by lunch. On Wednesday night, a friend and I were hanging out. We discussed the muster that we knew was due and decided that they would have it in two days, on Friday. Friday was a payday, and paydays are useless days. It starts out as a regular day. You do pt, do the formation thing, and go to work. Then you see the paymaster walk through the hangar to his office. The race is on. Everybody finishes what they are doing, however well, and rushes to get in line. We bullshit around, wait for our turn, and get our money. I get my money, pay those I owe, collect from those who owe me and return to work. Not so with most of the others. They had so many excuses to leave early that even the brass was amused. There may have been eight of us left in the hangar by one o'clock. As I said, a wasted day. Just like a muster day. We figured that they would combine the two. It was the logical thing to do. I had forgotten that logic did not play a big part in army protocol.

My friend and I decided to get drunk, thinking that we had a day to recover before the muster. Oops. We got very drunk. I remember my roommate shaking me and telling me that I was already two hours late for the muster. I was still drunk. This was not good. I got up as best I could, threw on a uniform, and stumble down to the company. At the door to the hangar was a friend of mine. He was a Staff Sargeant, and he happened to be the guy that picked another guy and me up from the airport when I first arrived in Germany. Great guy. I went up to him and told him that I had overslept and had to sign in. He told me that he needed to see my i.d. to let me in. Of course, I didn't have it. I told him that I would go get it as soon as I signed in, but he was adamant.

Regulations, blah, blah, blah. I knew he was fucking with me, but there was nothing I could do about it. So I trudged back up to the barracks, dug through my shit, found my wallet, and returned. Asshole. I hand him my i.d., and he says, " Where's your web gear, your helmet? This is a muster. ". Once again, I told him that I would go get it as soon as I signed in. He said that he couldn't let me in until I was G.I., So I trudged back up to the barracks, dug through the closet that I swore I would now organize, found my shit, and went back, only to be told that it was chemical muster and I needed to have my chemical suit as well. I was really starting to dislike this guy. I went back to the barracks, got my gear, and returned.

When I finally got to the C.Q. ( Charge of Quarters ) desk, I was about three-plus hours late. He was pissed. He would have gotten off early, but he had to wait for me. I apologized and promised that I would make it up to him if I could. Then, I went downstairs to the armory to get my weapon and the chemical sergeant's office across the hall to get my gas mask. Unfortunately, the armorer and I didn't get along. He was a prissy sort who insisted that my M-16 be returned to him in proper inspection condition even though the likelihood of firing the damned thing was minimal. I felt that I did an adequate job and that he should lighten up. This time, however, he had a legitimate complaint. I had made him wait for almost four hours. Again, I apologized, or more honestly, I hope I apologized, but under the circumstances, I had far more serious things to consider than his feelings.

 The chemical sergeant was in a much better mood about the situation. In fact, he was laughing when I walked into his office. He knew as well as I how much trouble I was in, and he thought it funny. But, of course, I thought it funny too. He was one of those rare people you met that you just sort of connected with. We moved in different circles, but we cracked each other up the few times that we met. We had similar senses of humor. The armor, hearing us laughing down the hall, was not amused. That made it even funnier for me.

After I got my gear together, I went out of the hangar to the starting formation. I was still too drunk to put on all the equipment while standing, so while everyone else, in full gear and all military, were standing at attention listening to the old man going on about whatever, I was sitting in my spot trying to get that crap on. When I was done, the commander told us to get breakfast and then return to work.

I was in supply at that time. My office was a converted school bus used to hold parts, and I would dole them out as needed. My desk was just inside the door, which was opened by the pull thing that the driver used. So I sat at my desk, tied my bootlaces to the door's handle, tied my weapon to my web gear, and promptly fell asleep. After that, if anyone tried to get in the door, it would yank one of my feet and wake me up. Hopefully.

I woke up at what I assumed was about 6PM. The area was quiet, and there was no one around. No matter how drunk you were, eight hours of sleep wearing full army regalia, including a chemical suit and mask and a helmet, sweats the toxins right out of you. I felt great. I went into Headquarters to return my weapon and gas mask and noticed that no one was around but that the commander's door was closed, which was unusual. I assumed that what to do with me was discussed behind those closed doors. I was in deep shit, and I knew it. I could go to jail for this one. I fucked up hard. As I went down the stairs, I thought that maybe they would compromise and just send me to rehab or something if I acted contrite and apologetic. That would be tomorrow. Now, I had to deal with miss prissy, being late again, and turning in my weapon; I let him know that I really did not care to hear his thoughts on the situation. The chemical guy and I, once again, got some serious laughs about my trouble.

I went back upstairs to a thankfully empty headquarters and proceeded to go through the hangar on my way to the barracks. But, unfortunately, the Top Sargent caught me just before my escape. He said to me, " Sullivan, you are the luckiest person I have ever met. " I had no idea what to make of that. In my mind, I was either going to jail or to the hospital for rehab. I could probably have benefitted from rehab, though that nor jail struck me as particularly lucky. Curious.

Back at the barracks, things were equally odd. Everyone was acting strange. There was a tension in the air that I could not comprehend. I wondered what I had missed. Something was in the air. But, I bathed and washed the alcohol sweat off me, changed my clothes, and went to the mess hall. I was starving, and I needed fuel. After a beautiful meal of fried chicken, peas, and mashed potatoes, I went back to my room and to bed.

I woke up a little earlier than usual and put on my best uniform. I may have even run a cleaning rag over my boots. Whatever was going to happen, I would be as G.I. as possible. CYA. It means, Cover Your Ass. It is a standard military phrase. Any plus that I could add to my column would be a bonus. I was in trouble, and I knew it, but I had to face the music. I take responsibility for my actions. Dammit.

When I got down to the hangar, I noticed the tension that I had felt in the barracks again. Something was up. I had missed something, but I had no idea what it might be. So I took my place in the formation and waited. Finally, the old man stood in front of the formation and proceeded to rail about the whole company from the Executive Officer ( XO ) on down. He went on and on, and the only thing I could think was, " what the hell had I missed? ". Then, suddenly, he said, "... with the exception of Specialist Sullivan. Specialist Sullivan, front and center! " Holy shit.

I had visions of him pulling me out in front of the whole unit and ripping my stripes ( rank, not stripes, really ) from my sleeve like they did on F-Troop. But instead of freaking out, I was professional as I could be, remembering the proper way to do such things from basic training. So I marched forward, saluted him, and said, " Specialist Sullivan reporting as ordered, sir," my head utterly empty of what to do next. He said a lot more, but I didn't hear it. I was blank. The next thing that I heard was "...four day pass." He handed me a sheet of paper. Again, I didn't know what to do. I took the form and thanked him, and he dismissed me. What the fuck had I missed?

As I walked back up the hill to the barracks, I read the thing. Sure enough, I had a four-day pass. This made no sense. I should have been on my way to jail, rehab, or some other punishment, yet I wasn't. Curiouser and curiouser. 

It turned out that a few hours after breakfast, the commander had gone into the hangar, and no one was there. So the whole company had either gone home or back to the barracks. Weapons and gear were left strewn about as the soldiers played games or watched television in the barracks. There was only one soldier in the whole company who was where he was supposed to be. The only one to remain fully combat-ready. Me.

The late, quite late, drunk, shabby passed out me. Where he was supposed to be and as ready as he would ever be should the balloon go up. Top was right. I am, and was, lucky.

This is an excellent example of how ridiculous my life has been. It may not be the best, but it is one of my favorites.