My favorite army stories : Top

 My unit in Germany, the ( fighting, heh ) 205th Aviation Company, was NATO as opposed to the regular Army. We did not wear unit patches on our uniforms. The next unit I served in was known as Task Force 160th. We fell under black ops and didn't wear patches either. This information is unimportant to this story. I just found it interesting. On both bases, Mainz Finthen Airfield ( Germany ) and Fort Campbell, Kentucky, we were stationed with support units. The eighth infantry was on the same base in Germany, and the Screaming Eagles, I forget the official name, was stationed on the same base as the 160th. What made these things interesting was the prejudice directed at us merely for not wearing insignia.

The point is that we did things quite differently than those other groups. We were front-line aviation, and most of our officers were pilots or navigators. They weren't overly concerned with rules and regulations. They just wanted to fly. And if you were one of those people that helped them do that, you were okay. I got into trouble, to a degree, because I was too friendly with them. I broke the fourth wall, so to speak. It happened at a company picnic in my first unit. A bunch of officers and I got into a pretty good conversation about ethics and morals. Army officers are generally college educated and usually well-read. Plus, they were pilots. Flyers are fascinating people with a firm grasp of imagination and a willingness to talk and listen. We had a lot of fun. 

When I got up to get another beer, the company's first sergeant, Top, as we called him and with whom I had a good relationship, approached me and said that hanging out with the officers was unacceptable. He was diplomatic and didn't use those words, but the implication was obvious. I had crossed the line. I had transgressed the unwritten rule. I acquiesced and joined the rest of my squad. We made fart jokes and talked about girls. It was okay.

Top and I had an interesting relationship. The first time I was called into his office, the first time that our paths had crossed, was because I had been on guard duty and C.Q. ( Charge of Quarters ) duty fifteen days out of the last thirty. I had apparently pissed someone off in Headquarters, and this was their revenge. What they didn't know was that I didn't care. Guard duty was fun. You got to play cards and talk with guys you rarely saw, went out to the airfield at night and got to dig on that, and when on C.Q. duty, all you had to do was mop and buff some floors and answer the phone. We pretty much just watched movies all night. During that particular time, I also read a lot of Army regulations and rules. I learned how much nonsense I was required to give. I am a minimalist. In school, I drove my instructors strictly what was needed to pass, and I met those requirements. Period. In the army, I did the same thing, although that circumstance also required that I do the best that I could. It wasn't just me anymore. I needed to be a part of a team. That being said, I also needed to be me and I needed to fully understand the boundaries. I had the idea that it would be advantageous to know how much I could get away with in other words. 

Anyway, Top called me into his office one day to ask why I didn't complain. I told him I enjoyed pulling those duties and had no reason to complain. I figured that Headquarters knew what it was doing. He assured me I would not have to do extra duty for a couple of months. I thanked him. A decent introduction to the hierarchy.

My subsequent encounter with him was comical. For a time, I had an unusual haircut, not exactly official. Not any way official, in fact. I only cut the sides and let the top part of my hairline grow. I think I might have been influenced by that old song Signs, by The Five Man Electrical Band. Anyway, I came into the company on a windy day and forgot to put my hat back on. I thought it was okay since it was after hours and no one would be around. With my hat on, I looked like a soldier. The sides and back of my hair were neatly trimmed, and my Sideburns and mustache regulation. But I never cut the top. I just pulled it back under my hat. I did this so that no one would know I was a soldier when I went out to the economy, which we called the non-military world. That windy day, I met Top in the hallway. I quickly put my hat on, and we had a conversation, after which his parting words were, "You might be due for a haircut. " Which I promptly got. It was a fair cop, to use an old British phrase.

Our next meeting was after I had an unusual encounter with the motor pool. The Eighth Infantry unit we shared the airfield with was out in the field, and they needed a substitute driver for the mess hall. I was chosen. I had to drive a deuce and a half, a huge and wide truck. Not a semi. I've never driven a semi, but I would be more comfortable with one than that 2.5-ton truck built on 1950s standards. Through narrow German roads, thank you very much, to pick up food and whatnot from the various warehouses. It was excellent. I love driving, especially under odd circumstances. The Sargeant that was my boss for this was also interesting. He constantly tried to get me to steal stuff. Finally, he assured me it was okay and that I wouldn't get into trouble. I took five pounds of frozen ground beef just to get him off my back. I threw the meat away when I got back to the barracks. I am not comfortable with theft. When you steal, you are telling the universe that stealing is okay. This means that you accept theft, even of your own stuff. Since I took that thought to heart, only one thing was ever stolen from me, and it was returned. A pretty good story in itself.

On one of our excursions, I was stopped at a light, and when I shifted gears to go forward, the gear shift, the whole thing, came out of the box. I had never seen such a thing. We had to wait a while for the tow truck, but we were home not much later. The Army can be efficient at times.

The next day, Top called me into his office. The motor pool had determined that the gear shift problem was my fault, and they felt I should fix it, as during this time, I was responsible for the maintenance of this vehicle. I was responsible to do an oil change, lubing and tightening all the connections, and doing whatever was needed, but there was no way that I could anticipate a gearshift problem. In fact, as I had told Top, that gearshift had obviously been broken before. It was too clean and too straight. I told him I suspected it had failed this time because of a bad weld. I never heard anything about it after that. { side note; } I have some exciting scars from falling into the pit in the motor pool, plus I met and flirted with the nurse ( that happened to be the wife of an officer in my company ), which was pretty cool, but we'll discuss that later.

Our next official meeting was after I had been reassigned to supply. I had an office in an old school bus that was converted into a supply shed. People would come in requesting one thing or another, and I would help them. I also had to order stock and do inventories. As a joke, I once tried to requisition a boat in a large order for parts. The old man ( company commander ) was amused but not pleased. Anyway, one day a CH47 ( Chinook ), the bird that I was trained on and the mainstay of our company, had an engine fall off. It didn't happen in our company, but all Chinooks had to be grounded and stress tests performed on the engine struts.

We were taught how to do this in AIT ( Advanced Individual Training ). You had to straddle the engine post, scrape the paint off, and then shine a blacklight to show any imperfections. The paint remover we used was called MEK ( MethylEthylKeytone ), and we were advised to get down from the aircraft if we felt dizzy. Which was common. Nasty stuff.

Because we had to do so many engine strut tests, two per bird times the 19 birds in our unit make for a lot of MEK. We ran out and ordering from the States would take too much time. We had to buy it from what we called the German economy. This was actually my second time doing this. We once needed a bearing made for one of the birds, and the Sargeant in charge and I went to pick it up at the local machinist shop. He charged us about ten dollars American for it, but when he discovered that we were Army, he had to charge us two hundred and fifty American dollars. That was because the American company that made the original bearings had a binding contract. Gotta love it.

Anyway, this next deal with the local economy was more interesting. As I said, we ran out of MEK, the paint remover for the struts. My experience with the Army is that it came in cans painted od ( olive drab ) green with the letters MEK ( Methyl Ethyl Ketone ) stenciled on both sides in black with a product number. When the Germans shipped us their order, the containers were similar, even down to the color, but there was a huge difference. The letters MEK, large and black, were all you saw on our cans. The German cans were covered with warnings. Methylethylketone is highly cancerous, and other health problems may occur after exposure. It was a hazardous liquid. I had no idea about this, and I'd used it myself. 

I had to tell somebody about what I'd found out. I decided to go straight to the Top about this. I thought it was too important to bother to go through the proper channels. To get to Tops office, I had to go through the hangar. I saw at least three guys working on struts with MEK, not even wearing the gloves or masks required for safety. They didn't know what I now knew. Neither did Top. Neither, apparently, did anyone.

I showed him the can with the warnings on it. I showed him the regulations about the procedure for dealing with MEK. Then I showed him what was going on in the hangar. He shut down all further work with MEK immediately. A few days later, they installed large fans to keep the air flowing in the now utterly open hanger. Masks and gloves were mandatory for anyone working with MEK. A few weeks later, Top informed me that a service-wide regulation, commonly known as a Twix, about the MEK thing had been made. My actions might have been responsible for the health and welfare of hundreds of people. By some traditions, that act makes me accountable for those people. No good deed ... as they say.

That encounter helped my next one. When I first got to the 205th, I was just a " mekanik " ( the running joke was " before I joined the army, I couldn't spell mekanik. So now I are one '). My platoon was commanded by a Guamanian cat named Cachocho. My drill instructor in basic was Guamanian. I had just heard of Guam during my time in service. Guam is a territory of the U.S. We control their economy, taking over a large part of the island and its spirit. The best thing that a Guamanian might do, in many an opinion, would be to get a job in the U.S. government, say joining the armed forces, and while living on a pretty decent level of society, be able to send money home to increase the lives of friends and family. I get that. But while I understand their appreciation for the situation we found ourselves in, I did not share it. Being in the Army meant nothing to me other than it was an interesting job in interesting circumstances. I was not popular with Guamanians unless or until they got to know me better. I have the same problem with a lot of people that aren't  WASP ( White Anglo-Saxon Protestant ), and even most others in my "class " if you will, have the same doubts as everyone else. It's really quite humorous and a decent challenge to overcome.

Sgt Cachocho and I got into it almost from the moment I joined the maintenance platoon. I remember him telling the rest of the group about how his brother had collected a necklace of Vietnamese soldiers' ears during that nonsense. Those kinds of things did happen, but they were rare, and I seriously doubted that the Sargent had ever known anyone that would not only do such a thing but be able to convince him that an act such as that was worth bragging about. 

I smirked. I may have even guffawed. He was not pleased. He went into a rant about defending the country and all that nonsense. He was severe, but he made a mistake. He asked me what I would do if the balloon went up, meaning that we went to war with those darn Russkies, my word, not his. I told him and indirectly the whole maintenance group and, in fact, the entire hangar, that in such a circumstance, I would first shoot a Russian then grab his rifle and shoot Cachocho with it. He was not happy about my answer, though many in my platoon were. We avoided each other after that.

The next time Cachocho and I had a problem was on a Saturday when we were allowed to work in civilian clothes. I had forgotten to take out an earring and he said that I was out of uniform. I replied that I was not, in fact, in uniform, as we were all in civilian clothes, as authorized by the C.O. Something that I had learned reading the regulations on all those C.Q. duties I had pulled. Heh. I won that argument. This was also before I was transferred to Supply, but I doubt those things are related.

A few months after the MEK incident, Sgt. Cachoco was put in charge of Supply. By this time, I had reorganized the system and got it running smoothly, and everyone was pretty happy about it. Cachocho thought he could improve it. He was wrong.

The first thing that he told me to do was to get rid of anything in my bus that didn't have an official part number. This was not necessary for the larger parts, but for screws, nuts, bolts, and the smaller things, it was impossible and ridiculous. Guys came in every day looking for some small screw or bolt. They would have the order number from the manual, but more often than not, we didn't have that exact part. There are countless small things needed for helicopter maintenance and no way to have every single one available, so I would find them the closest thing that I knew would suffice. No problem.

Cachocho demanded, or more correctly, ordered me to get rid of any part that was not filed by number. I refused. I told him that we could do that over time, but not right away. We needed those drawers full of unmarked bolts and screws and whatnot to keep the birds in the air. We went round and round on this. He would tell me to do it and I would refuse.

About a week later, Top called me into his office and wanted an explanation as to why I was disobeying a direct order from the Sargeant in charge of my post. I told him about what Cachocho wanted and why I thought that it was a mistake. I informed him that doing what was asked of me ( heh ) would cause more problems than it would solve. He told me that while I had a reasonable argument, I was supposed to do what I was told to do. I agreed to do as he said but made sure that he understood that I was doing it under protest.

The next week went on as usual, but a large part of my days was spent emptying drawers of small parts into large containers, unlabeled and sealed when full. For a while I was able to help folk out with parts, large and small, but soon the small was pretty much out of commission, being in these large drums and unavailable. Within a few days, three birds were down, unable to legally fly, for ridiculously small reasons. I got complaints every day from guys that trusted me to keep their birds flying and I was not shy about telling them just why. I had fought for them but failed. That following Saturday I went down to the hangar for a beer and maybe a game of pool and saw all of the maintenance crew sorting out all those nuts and bolts and putting them back into and onto my shelves. They were not happy with me until I told them the whole story and while still unhappy, they knew that I was not to blame and they appreciated that I had stood up and tried to prevent the whole thing. No one ever mentioned any of this again and we got back to business as usual.

Now comes the Story. I love this one. Top doesn't come into it until the end, but it's worth the wait.

Muster alerts are a military thing when they wake up all the troops and we do the soldier thing. We put on our helmets and gear, man our post, and pretend we are real soldiers at war. A serious and important thing, for the most part. My unit, however, was not one where we defended the borders, or overtook hills, or whatever, we were the guys that took soldiers and equipment to those places. So a muster was really nothing more than getting up earlier than usual and doing the same stuff but while wearing helmets. Basically a pain in the ass but at least you usually got off early and they only did them once in a while, probably just to say that they did it.

Payday Fridays are also a military thing. When the monthly payday fell on a Friday, it was a throwaway day. We'd work as usual, but when the paymaster opened his cage, everybody stopped what they were doing and got in line. In addition to that, those that wanted to found countless excuses not to go back to work. " The cable guy is coming ", " I have to pay my electricity bill ", " My wife needs to go to the dentist ". All kinds of excuses. It wasn't uncommon for me to be the only one working on those days.

On Wednesday, a buddy and I, knowing a muster was coming, figured that they would do it on Friday since Friday was payday and therefore a throwaway. We got drunk. Really, really drunk. And we were wrong.

My roommate, who lived off base with his girlfriend, woke me up and told me that I had to get up. They had called the muster at four AM and it was now eight AM. and I was late. Very late. And also still drunk. This was not good. I grabbed a uniform, probably not my cleanest one, and stumbled down to the hangar. When I got there, a friend of mine, an E-7 ( Sargeant first-class ) was at the door. He was laughing. He knew that I was drunk and he knew that I was late and he knew that he could fuck with me. He asked for my I.D. I did not have my I.D. and told him that I would bring it to him but that I first had to sign in.

He told me that since it was a muster he had to do everything by the book. I had to go back to the barracks to get my I.D. so that he could let me in. I told him that I was already late and I needed to sign in first, but he refused to budge. I trudged back up the hill, got my wallet, and went back. He then informed me that since I was not wearing my helmet and web gear and whatnot, I was not in uniform and that he could not let me in. Laughing the whole time. I went back to the barracks, grabbed whatever I thought might be necessary, and drug my ass back to the hangar. This was becoming tiresome as I was still pretty drunk. When I showed him my I.D. and all the accouterments I had brought with me, he informed me that it was a chemical alert and that I needed my chemical suit ( a kind of jumpsuit lined with charcoal ) as well. Motherfucker. Man, he loved fucking with me.

So I weebled my way back to the barracks and returned with the said item, got into the company, and signed in. Five hours late. Fuck. I was in trouble. The C.Q. ( Charge of Quarters ) was not happy I was so late. Usually, a muster meant that they got off early, once everyone had signed in, but he knew me and when I promised him that I would make it up to him, he was cool. But now I had to go downstairs to get my weapon ( M-16 ) from the armorer, who was not a friend but also had to delay going home because I was late. He and I never got along. He was a prissy little bitch that smelled like kimchi and hated that I didn't take the army and especially my rifle seriously. I didn't care.

At this point, I knew that I was in deep shit. I was massively late for muster and still drunk. I could go to jail for this. At best, I could admit to having a problem and go to rehab, which is like three weeks of basic training all over again and meetings and promising not to do it again. Not fun, but better than breaking rocks in the hot sun, I suppose.

After I was through with him I went down the hall to the chemical guy to get my chemical mask, which you also had to sign out. Now, this guy I liked. He was hilarious. We didn't know each other well, but we shared an affinity for the absurd and a dark sense of humor. He knew I was fucked. I knew I was fucked. We had a big laugh over the situation, which pissed the weapons guy off even more.

I go back upstairs and join the company in formation, trying to get all that chemical gear on and almost succeeding in not falling down. The C.O. ( aka; the Old Man, the Company Commander, etc...) was out front giving orders and whatnot ( I was too busy trying to get that damned suit on to listen ) and finished with an order to get breakfast and return to work. I went to work.

Well, I should say that I went to my bus. I was still in supply, and my office ( post ) was that converted school bus where I distributed parts. My desk was just inside the door so I tied my boot lace to the handle, so that no one could enter without it hopefully waking me, made sure that my M-16 was attached to my web belt, adjusted the cumbersome chemical mask to my head, and promptly fell asleep. Maybe I just passed out.

When I awoke, it was clearly early evening. I was well-rested and sober. I was also late turning in my weapon and my chemical mask, but I didn't care. I was also in deep shit and that had a priority. I entered the company and said hello to that night's C.Q. and went downstairs to turn in my equipment. The armory guy was still and maybe a little more pissed at me, but the chemical guy and I continued our laughter at the situation. I was so fucked.

Walking back upstairs to the main company offices, I decided to plead my case and ask for re-hab; thirty days in the hospital with P.T. ( Physical Training ), good food, and boring classes, when I bumped into Top. I had a lot of respect and fondness for him and I was embarrassed about it all and wasn't sure about how his opinion towards me might change. I said hello and he said something in reply that I had not anticipated. All he said to me was " Specialist Sullivan, in all my years I have never met a luckier individual. See you tomorrow at the formation."

Huh? Lucky? Me? Now? What the fuck. I headed back up the hill wondering about this. It made no sense. Neither did what I got when I arrived at the barracks. Everyone there was acting weird and uptight and ignoring me. I didn't think too much about it but wondered what I had missed. I had other things on my mind, so I took a shower, put on some clean clothes, went to dinner, and then back to my room to sleep.

I woke up early, shit showered and shaved, and put on my best uniform. Worst case scenario, I was going to appear as professional as I could at formation, knowing that something was going to happen. My vision was that I was going to be called in front of the whole company and have my rank ripped from my uniform like Corporal Agarn from F troop, and sentenced to whatever punishment that decided on. In other words, aside from my television experience, I had no idea what to expect.

At formation, the old man stood in front of the company and railed and railed at everybody. Even the X.O. ( Executive Officer, second in command ) got a tongue-lashing. What the fuck had I missed? He went on for a bit and then said "...except Specialist Sullivan! Specialist Sullivan, front and center!." What? Holy Fuck! I didn't know what to do. My brain was like a beehive. I couldn't think. I had assumed that there would be a meeting behind closed doors and I would hear something like " We're sorry that we have to do this...blah blah blah", but I was being called out in front of the whole company! Shit! My brain shut down completely.

So I did what they trained us to do in basic. I made the proper moves and footwork, went to the front, saluted, and said " Specialist Sullivan reporting as ordered, sir!" Something that I had never imagined I would have the occasion to say in real life, and had no idea what the response might be. My brain was still on vacation and filled with bees. After that, I didn't hear what the C.O. said until he concluded with the words "...a four-day pass.", handed me a piece of paper and said I was excused. I said " Thank you, Sir" and got the fuck out of there. WTF?!?

It turns out that after they dismissed everyone from the muster formation and I set up my little nest in the bus, everyone else in the company completely fucked off. Sometime around ten or eleven AM the Old Man went through the hangar and nobody was working. Not a soul. It seems that they all went to breakfast and then either disappeared or went back to the barracks, most of them out of uniform. Weapons were unattended, placed haphazardly on beds or wherever. A classic Army fubar, or clusterfuck. Except for one guy. One drunk fuck up, hours late for a muster, an embarrassment to the company, was the only person exactly where he was supposed to be and in full gear and uniform. In other words, me. Top was right. I am one lucky son of a bitch.