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Everybody’s Danish – Chapter U. S. Army (1948)
By fred | December 3, 2009
CHIPPING FROM THE ROUGH – December 3rd, 2009
From “Everybody’s Danish” – Life memories of Fred A. Nielsen
As a truly certified old fart now I am 80 years of age, you think sometimes that you have your life figured out. If you think that, sit down and do as I have, write about it. Looking over the chapters ahead and those written, many chapters written years and months ago is truly an adventure and likely will tell you more about yourself than you want to know. Writing will tell you what was really important to you.
You tend to write about what you excelled at, what you were good at or what was exciting and what changed your life in positive ways. You do not like to write or spend a lot of time writing about parts of your life that were difficult, just hard work, not something you would care to do again.
When paging through “Everybody’s Danish” glancing at all I have written I note hardly anything was written about all the many years I was in the alcoholic and food import and wholesale business. Running three small companies, working six days a week and often 12 or more hours a day, I have written little of that period, yet it took up most of my life.
Yes, there were times during that period that I made a considerable amount of money and other times where I lost a considerable amount of money. All in all I always provided a nice home for my family, food on the table, a couple of cars, boat, pool so we were certainly not living a poor life.
Still – the constant stress of running those businesses the ups and downs, the constant shortage of working capital to build a strong business does not make those years favorites of mine. And – it shows in my writing about life, my life and that of my family. I have to say here that there were times, the down times that would occur that if it were not for Sally my wife of now 59 years, I would have given up. Sally never, ever condemned her man, never complained about me doing a screw up that would effect our life for a time, where we would really tighten have to tighten the belt. She would hug me and say, “We have each other we have the kids, you will make it back, don’t worry!” And – my God I did! When you marry a lady like that you are truly blessed no matter what happens.
I had and thankfully still have my two fine sons, Richard and Scott. I wish I had been able to spend more time with them when they were children. Still we had time some super times together all the time I could give them and their Mom, my beloved Sally gave them love and raised them to be the fine men they are today. Often Sally would hold dinners until I got home, sometimes we ate at weird hours, seven or eight or later at night, she wanted us to be together as a family, eat together. Hell of a lady to be married too.
What brought all this on is paging down “Everybody’s Danish” this unfinished and likely never will be finished saga of my life and noting all the pages devoted to Poly High School only three years of my life. The pages devoted to the U. S. Army, actually only one year of active duty and only one year of my now eighty years. How I devoted page after page about the army, more about that than forty years of my life in business, THAT has to tell you what you unconsciously loved, what you unconsciously prided yourself in and about.
I was a damn good soldier, I am not bragging when I say that! Amazing because in the U. S. Army I got the crap beat out of me, never before or after was I so totally defeated in any fight or battle or game. Eyes that could barely open, another broken nose, black and blue marks all over my face and body. I am getting ahead of myself.
With all that, I was one of only two young kids that made it to the rank of Sgt in a year, all in the one year of active duty, just twelve months. There were at least four Battalions of men, well over three thousand men and only two of us made it to that rank in a year. I am damn proud of that bragging or not! It took a bit of luck, a lot of work, and a lot of fun. I truly loved the U. S. Army, wanted to be an officer go to OCS, my Dad had a hell of a time talking me out of it after my year of service, actually it was our Commanding Officer Captain Skelton that made a few comments that decided me against a career in the service, more about that later.
Why my enchantment with the Army? Maybe it was my commanding office, Captain Skelton a man you would follow into hell, because you knew he would not be behind you, he would be leading. Also our Sgt’s were men you could respect, truly respect. Also I love the army, the way it functions – if you kept your nose clean, followed orders, used your head, you would be rewarded with promotion. My army, my time short time in the service to me was one of the best times in my life. OF COURSE – I am talking about the Peace Time army, I am not talking about combat, or war. I doubt if I would have lasted long in a real war – why? Because I got killed so many times in the war games, a referee yelling “You and your squad are dead!” was heard many times, too many times for me to think of being in combat infantry man, also the reason I applied for and went into the AG (Adjutant General) training program doing payroll and company records. Hey, I may love the army but was not totally stupid. As much as I like it – it is a place that can get you killed!
Many of my very best friends from football, high school and life were in either the first or second world wars, Korea, Vietnam – most made it back a couple did not. To them, national service was seeing buddies and friends die – so you have to remember, MY army, my Peace Time army was a heck of a lot different than theirs. To all those that have served, offered their lives to protect and fight our nation’s battles in every service be it army, navy, marines, air force they have my respect and thanks for giving so much.
Tonight our 35 home retirement community is having their annual Christmas party – it will be the first one we have missed since moving here. Trouble is I have this awful cold, blowing my nose all that stuff, did not figure my friends and neighbors would enjoy their old buddy doing that. So Sally and I will stay home and wish them all well from here. I have some truly wonderful neighbors and friends here, it will be the last home we will ever own and we could not have picked better – truly super people!
So – after all that introduction the next few weeks you will go with me into the one year of my life in the U. S. Army, the peace time army of 1948 over sixty-one years ago – some of the guys that were in the armed services will get a kick out of the fact that I never in my year of active duty did one minute of KP (Kitchen Police) – for those that do not know what that means – it means I escaped working my butt off washing greasy pots and pans and doing the clean up for the cooks, not a lot of fun for those stuck with it.
Hope you get a kick out of this part of my life – Uncle Fred
CHAPTER (The Army-‘Render unto Caesar’) from Everybody’s Danish
LOTTO DRAFT-LIFE IN LIMBO
How is it possible to confine so much in so little time? Where do you start, well the beginning is probably as good a spot as any.
After graduating from high school with the summer class of 1947, the world was still in a turmoil, congress had passed a draft law, now not a normal old draft law, but a crazy, lotto, type of law. Some jokers would draw a number out of a pot and if it was your number, you were gone. This was really ridiculous in my opinion. You had a nation of young men with no idea what was going to happen to them. I really have to believe that this was a national joke.
‘Render unto Caesar’s – that which is Caesar’s!’ Meaning if Uncle Sam needs you, you go. I am not in total disagreement with that, but I say call your young men in one lump sum, and then let the rest of us get on with our lives or visa versa. I guess they had some student deferment, but that was about it. If you wanted to get started on a career it could be interrupted with the drawing of a number. A very bad deal indeed!
Fortunately, Congress also had decided to test a program that was long established in some of the European countries, especially Switzerland. The program was that every young Swiss had one year of military service. After one year the Swiss were all maintained in a sort of National Guard where every man in Switzerland was a trained soldier and from that training could be mobilized in a short time. No huge standing army needed when each man was required to train.
The beauty of this was that every male in the country was a fully trained soldier. In fact in Switzerland I understand each soldier took home his rifle. It sure as hell would not take much for a country to mobilize for a war with this kind of structure in their armed forces.
The program in the United States was voluntary. If you were eighteen or nineteen years of age you could volunteer for one year of active duty and six years reserve. The six years reserve consisted of serving one night a month, and one weekend a month, plus two weeks of summer training.
Dad was all for it. I was knocking around. Oh, I was working in the business, chasing the ladies, but some what undecided about going to college full time, taking some night classes at USC and just waiting for something to happen, and he knew it. I was going into the wholesale import food business with Dad and Mom, but sure did not have my heart and soul in it yet.
Dad said, “Why don’t you join? In one year you will be home and not have to worry about military service.” “The reserve is nothing much and you can get on with the business.” What the heck, Dad was right and I was looking for some excitement in my life so I enlisted. Now all of my buddies, classmates, my old teammates figured I was stupid.
“Why are you doing that?” “Are you nuts?” I really got the raspberries. A bunch of the guys, including my best buddy Hugo, joined the State National Guard. This made them exempt form the draft. A little training in the summer, a weekend here and there, and maybe a night or two. This was little to ask they figured, and they got to stay home. Hell, they would have all the girls to themselves, while I was in the service. By joining the National Guard they were exempt from the draft.
It turned out that Dad was right and they were wrong, but we are getting ahead of the tale.
I passed the physical. One ear was not so good. I had gotten hit in the head playing football, and it evidently popped and ear drum. The eye chart was a little hazy, but I got through that one also.
YOU’RE IN, LIKE IT OR NOT
Finally I received a notice to report to Fort McArthur, in San Pedro, California. In a large room about a hundred of us were sworn in. “Repeat after me,” the officer in charge said. I have no idea what the oath was, but it was very solemn, very serious business for a bunch of young men.
As soon as it was over the sergeant said, “Your ass belongs to me now!” Funny everyone was nice and polite before we were sworn in, sure as hell changed fast, the sergeant was not kidding, the army expected you to obey orders, no back talk, the sergeants hand out the crap and you take it is the first rule you learn. The next day we were bundled on some buses and send a few hundred miles up the coast to Fort Ord.
Now Fort Ord may have been nothing but a bunch of old barracks, but is sure was in a beautiful spot. Fort Ord is just above beautiful Monterey Bay, actually right on the bay. Lots of sand. We were greeted on our arrival, by another Sergeant, and again were instructed about how, “Our ass belonged to him!” The Sergeant’s tone of voice let us know that he was not just being friendly.
“Which of you guys can type?” he yelled. About four of us were stupid enough to raise our hands. “That’s fine,” he said, “Get those buckets over there and pick up all the butts and trash in the company area.” “All I want to see is asses and elbows, all you guys with delicate fingers, need a little work.” That is the first and last time I ever volunteered for anything in the Army. I may be a thick headed square head, but one lesson was enough.
We had better discuss Sergeants here, or for that matter any rank above a private. They called us ‘buck ass privates.’ I recently, as an elder now, read an article about the language of enlisted men being used and especially enlisted men in command of others. How they cannot use ‘swear’ words in their commands, or in their conversation with them. How they could get in trouble for swearing at the troops under their jurisdiction.
Not in my army, in 1948 and 49 this was no problem. The common form of communication was using about every third word as a word you certainly would not want to use in front of your mother, wife, girl friend, pastor, priest, or anyone else, but another army person. Since our position as ‘buck ass privates,’ was the lowest of the low any name or description of us in a very colorful assortment of words seemed to be acceptable. Shit heads and assholes were some of the nicest names we were called.
The next day we lined up to draw our equipment. You were in this huge line, single file, the front end going in a long, very long, Quonset hut type of building. In fact, that was about the only kind they had in Fort Ord, at least the small part of the Fort I saw. At the other end, guys would be stumbling out with a huge stack of cloths, boots, the works, and all G. I. issue. A duffel bag would be draped over the top.
The uniform issue – that turned into being ‘a tell tale’ about where we were going, was ‘what’ we were issued. Half of us would be going to Texas, the other half to Fort Lewis in the state of Washington. How did we know? Easy, those of us that got khakis would be going to Texas the rest got the dress wool pants and Ike jackets. I got the wool pants and Ike jacket, so I knew I would be heading for the muddy, rainy and cooler north. Fort Lewis was where I would train, something I am thankful for to this day. Buddies that did the heat of Texas for a year tell tales about that hell hole that made their training so miserable you can’t believe it.
When we finally got back to the barracks, the sergeant was waiting. There is a certain care given to army clothes and gear. Each cot (bed) had a trunk at its foot. In the army you call it a ‘foot locker.’ Why you call it that is beyond me, but that is what it is called. You also got a small medal wall locker to hang up your jackets, pants, hat, and stuff.
Some guys had just dumped there cloths into the foot locker, and that is when the screaming started. “You dumb bastards; don’t you know how to take care of your clothes?” Of course we did not, certainly not the way the army wanted you too.
We got off for chow and that is all. It was well after midnight before every sock, every set of underwear, every shirt, yes even every hanky, was folded and stored away to his satisfaction. Each ‘foot locker’ and wall locker, identical to each other, every article folded in the exact same way AND in exactly the same place, exactly inches from another item and that is the way you would keep the foot locker for your entire army career — or else! You may be a slob before you get into the army but I know of no slobs that come out – neatness is trained and trained and trained into you.
Army boots have to be the greatest pain in the ass ever designed. At least the boots they issued in those days. The top of the boots was a sort of legging made out of leather. This was smooth, and easy to polish. The shoe part all around the foot, heel, toes, was of very rough leather. I really have come to the conclusion that they put the rough wrong side of the leather on the outside on purpose. Why in the hell they would do that is still beyond me.
The boots were expected to be shined until you could see your face in them. Impossible. When I think of the hundreds of hours spent on those damn boots, I have to wonder at the efficiency of the U. S. Army. Millions upon millions of hours have had to be spent by our enlisted men on those boots, when all the manufacturer had to do was put a shine on the leather to start with.
The devises we used to scrap, buff, and polish those boats is something I have thankfully forgotten, like a nightmare that you blot from your memory.
Haircuts. I guess you could call it that. A line up, and with a couple of barbers you still moved very briskly. A couple of buddies that I got to know were Mexican Americans with beautiful black wavy hair, it would take just a few sweeps of the clippers and it was gone.
Shots. Here the Army was not wasting any time. Another Quonset hut, with that big long line. You would move down the line and there would be a medic on each side of you. They would love to stick a needle in each arm at the same time. Sort of lift you us and set you down. I have no idea just how many shots we got or for what, but we got em all at once.
One guy in our group was a big weight lifter. He would act very tough. None of us we going to mess with him, maybe he was that tough. He was way up in front of me in line; the funny thing was that he always had to get out of line to go to the head (bathroom). He did this several times. Finally he ended up just a few places in front of me. He was not walking in his normal swagger, and looked a little pale.
I remember some of the smaller guys, the medics would say, “Roll up your shelves.”
“My God is that an arm, the needle is bigger!” Their little jokes did not seem to faze the small guys. I remember one of the smaller guys saying, “Give it your best shot, funny man.”
Now it is our big weight lifters turn. He rolled up his shelve, and there was no jokes about the needle being bigger than the arm this time. The medics proceeded to stick a needle in each arm. He sort of lifted up on his toes, like we all did at this stage. The odd part was that when he came down he fell flat on his face, he completely passed out.
I really felt sorry for the guy; I don’t think he ever lived it down. This big lug was the target of all of the guys from then on. If a guy was sewing up something he would say, “I got to sew this up, don’t look at the needle, hell I don’t want you to faint on me.”
Tests. It seemed like there were dozens of them. I. Q. tests. Tests on mechanical stuff. How fast do you put the right shaped blocks in the right holes? Officer’s tests, to see if you could qualify for a commission, the army certainly wanted to know all about you. Amazingly I came out with a very high I. Q. Average was 100 and I came up with 168. I think they made a mistake, but that was O. K. by me. To be an officer, or to apply for O. C. S. (Officers Candidate School), you had to have at least 120.
The days at Fort Ord were a big blur. Rush here, rush there, learn this, do that.
In between all the tests, equipment issues, shots and stuff, equipment care lectures, we marched, we drilled, learned how to get in formation. How to ‘sound off.’ This rush lasted less than two weeks and we were off for Washington. A bus to the train, and away we went. That was the slowest train ride – we seemed to be dumped at every siding for faster trains to pass. It took several days to do what should have been done in one day by car.
FORT LEWIS IN THE STATE OF WASHINGTON
Fort Lewis, in the state of Washington. The fort is huge, covering miles and miles of forest, and swamp land. It is right between the cities of Tacoma and Olympia, the state capital. It was beautiful. The area we were in was just like a huge college campus. Large red brick buildings, square after square of them, all built around a huge field. The field turned out to be the parade ground, and we did get familiar with that area, believe me.
We ended up in Charlie company, company ‘C,’ of the first battalion, Ninth Infantry Regiment, Second Division. Our Division had evidently won some battles in wars gone by; the dress uniform you wore was interesting. The French had presented the Division with a decoration that I could not find the name of in any spelling books or dictionaries. It is a colored cord that wraps around your left shoulder and arm pit, also has a tassel on it. I believe it is called a ‘fot-de-gueer’ or some such thing – I have no idea how to spell it correctly. Also there was a square medal that was pinned to the middle of you shoulder strap on your Ike jacket. If you did not look carefully it would look like an officer’s decoration, like a major.
Beside this stuff, we would blouse our boots. Like the paratroopers do. You put a rubber band on the upper part of your combat boots and tuck your pants under the rubber band. Did we think we looked good, you bet!
I do believe that the army was trying hard, very hard to get the program of one year active service, and six years reserve training for all eighteen year old males to be passed into law. It seemed that we were constantly watched, visits form high ranking officers to Fort Lewis were constant. We also had our share of politicians visiting from Washington D. C. evaluating our training.
We had parades and reviews for everything you can imagine. The visit of a politician, of a high ranking officer, the retirement of some old sergeant, holidays, whatever happened, was reason for a big parade, and ‘review’ of the troops. The army wanted to show off their young men in this program.
This is the reason I believe, that we were trained in such a beautiful ‘campus’ of an army base. The army knew that this program would be watched by a lot of people, politicians, people in positions of power, and most of all by the general public.
Trained we were to a fine point. Our normal ten week ‘basic’ training was extended several weeks to twelve full weeks. After basic we were given advanced infantry training. War games, compass exercises, and training in every kind of weapon you could imagine, we had to train, learn to clean and take apart each weapon. Besides our trusty M-1 rifle, we fired pistols, carbine, machine guns (BAR’s), rocket launchers, hand grenades, and use of the bayonet.
One side thing about the state of Washington. All of us from the First Platoon were from Southern California. On the first weekend pass, after basic training, a bunch of us figured we would go into Tacoma on the bus, get something to eat, maybe go to a show, and just generally horse around.
When we are standing at the bus stop several other older enlisted men where waiting also. Draped across their arm was a rain coat. We had been issued rain coats, but there was not a cloud in the sky a beautiful sunny day in the Pacific Northwest. Why have a rain coat? In a half hour or so, by the time we got to Tacoma, it was raining buckets. The sun could be bright and no clouds in the sky – didn’t matter – from then on we always took a rain coat along, especially in the fall, winter, and spring.
WHERE WE LIVED
Each Battalion was in a quad of all brick, three story buildings. Each quad consisted of a block, with streets around it. There was the first battalion, second battalion and third battalion and so forth on would be a small city block area. There was a distance of about twenty feet between the brick buildings and the street. That area consisted of scrubs along the sides of the buildings and a beautiful grass lawn. It sure did not look like the army of old wood barracks I remembered in California, it was more like a college campus.
Each building in the quad had a cellar for the coal furnace, and a work out area with weights, boxing gloves and stuff. ‘A’ Able company was the battalion headquarters company. It was facing Main street and right across from the huge parade ground. The other identical buildings in our quad were ‘B’ for ‘Baker’ company, ‘C’ for ‘Charlie’ company, and ‘D’ or ‘Dog’ company. We were ‘Charlie Company.
In the middle of this group of four large square company buildings was a large open area hidden by the outer company brick buildings. It contained several wood barrack buildings, one for each company. Another smaller wood barracks building was for the ‘Medic’s,’ the ‘sick call’ building. Here they took care of guys that were sick or hurt. The other wood barracks were the home of cadre, fellows that were not married and lived on base. Several of our cooks, and platoon sergeants lived in one of those buildings.
The ground floor of our brick company building had a small office for the company commander, the company first sergeant, and the company clerk. Across from the company office was a very large room, with a radio, chairs, a sofa, and writing desks. It was called the ‘Rec. Room,’ short for ‘Recreation room.’ It had a bunch of old magazines, books and stuff like that in it.
Once in a while the Captain would get a letter from the parent of one of us in training, stating that they were worried and had not had a letter from their son in months. He would raise hell when we were in formation. He would then send the son in question to the recreation room for a half hour with instructions that a letter to his Mom or Dad would have to be on the Top Sgt’s desk at the end of that time or maybe a little work detail could be set up just for him.
The main floor on the other side of the building had the ‘Mess Hall’ the eating area and the kitchen and kitchen refrigerators and storage room. There was also a short stairwell to the cellar ‘Supply Room.’ That Supply room had every thing in it you could imagine, and more. Most supply sergeants like to have a little extra of a given item, just in case of some unforeseen event. I have yet to meet a good supply sergeant that was not half bandit, thief, or something in between.
The second and third floors were ‘platoon’ areas. On the side above the ‘Rec. Room’ and the company office was the First Platoon sleeping area and shower toilet area. The platoon sergeant had a small room across the hall from the huge platoon sleeping area.
In our training platoons we had about fifty guys in each platoon, so there were fifty cots, twenty five lined up on each side of the room. Each cot with a ‘foot locker’ at the end of the cot. In the middle of the walking area between the cots, there were rifle racks. Each of us had his rifle in a particular spot on those racks.
In each platoon sleeping room by the door to the hall and staircase were rows of medal lockers, each of us had his own locker. Each platoon area on each floor was the same in size and similarly equipped.
So my platoon, the first platoon, of ‘Charlie’ company was on the second floor above the company offices and Recreation Room, the second platoon was on the third floor above us. In the other wing of the building above the mess hall had the third platoon and above them on the third floor was the fourth platoon.
I will say here that the “third” platoon were mostly guys from the deep South, all white southern guys, some even bragged that they never wore a pair of shoes until getting into the army – is that something to brag about? Our first platoon guys were all from Southern California, there developed a deep hatred between us. Mainly because of their attitude about race. Those of us from California, many of us had friends that were black, they were our friends and teammates, we were soon called ‘nigger lovers’ – it got so bad that we called them out for a fight behind the beer hall, they did not show up – so what do you call them for that? They shut up after that, but all my life I have had a deep resentment of southern whites and before I have anything to do with them find out their attitude about race first, thankfully all southerners are not like those bastards. I found out at Poly High that a guy can be black, brown, or whatever – but he can also be the best damn friend you ever had. His blood is just as red as yours, and likely he is as smart or a heck of a lot smarter than you, so what is there to be so superior about? Just cause you are white? Beats the hell out of me! More about this later.
This building was to be my home for most of the year I spent as an active duty soldier in the United States Army.
THE CADRE
The saying goes something like, ‘You are as good as your leaders.’ In this case I have to agree. I don’t remember much about the Lieutenant Colonel that was our Battalion commander, and I certainly don’t remember anything about the General that was our Division commanding officer. He was mainly a blur on a reviewing stand or on the parade ground. I do remember our company commander, Captain Skelton. This guy you would follow into hell if he asked you, he would never ask his boys to do anything that he would not do. He dreamed up a final basic training 40 mile hike with a full field pack when all the other training companies did only 20 miles, just to prove we were the best in the division. Damn near killed us, but the Captain was right there with us, marching every step with his boys. Respect our Captain earned it and we sure as hell gave it to him. Again I am getting a bit ahead of myself.
Captain Skelton was ex Navy. From what I remember he was just an enlisted man, he was also a boxer, in fact at the height of his Navy career he was ‘All Pacific Fleet’ or something like that. He took his discharge from the Navy after the War was over, then joined the Army and went to OCS (Officers Candidate School). Worked his way up to Captain.
He was an inch or so over six feet tall, about one hundred and ninety pounds, a very solid guy with a solid square face and eyes that would have so much expression in them. You could tell what mood he was in by just looking into his eyes. The man had a hell of a good sense of humor. Something he would need in trying to train 200 odd eighteen and nineteen year old kids. The Captain and I would become well acquainted.
We had an old Master Sergeant that ran the company. In those days a Master Sergeant has three stripes up and three down, with a sort of diamond in the middle. In the Army for every couple of year’s service you get a small stripe on the lower left arm of your Ike jacket. Our Top Sgt had them almost up to his elbow. What he did not know about the Army wasn’t worth knowing.
Our ‘Field First Sergeant’ was a real pistol. A thin whip cord body, no more than a hundred and sixty pounds, but all steel, his name was Sergeant Jungbooth. Sergeant Jungbooth had been a Marine during the War had fought all over the Pacific. He had more medals than you can believe, which included two Purple Hearts. (Purple Hearts are for receiving a wound in combat.)
He had decided to join the Army for a number of reasons. One, he was a damn good soldier, knew it, and would look you in the eye and tell you so – hey, I believe him and so did the rest of us. Two, he contacted malaria in the Pacific and every so often came down with attacks, so Army medical attention was another reason. Three, he was married and with his medals, and time in the service, could derive a good income. For a Technical Sergeant, (Three stripes up and two down) he got a hell of pay check. The army pays you for all of those medals for gallantry, and for every wound (Purple Heart), also for every year in service you receive a pay increase. Our ex Marine Sergeant provided a good living for his family.
Each platoon had a Lieutenant; we had a young Second Lieutenant just graduated from the University of California, ROTC. He kept a low image, mainly because he had no idea what the real army was all about. He was strictly by the book. Except for inspections where the lieutenants got to play and give out gigs, I really don’t have much of a memory of these guys, and to tell you the truth they got little respect from us or from our real Sgt’s running the show. Our platoon sergeant ran the platoon; I don’t ever remember him asking an opinion or advice of the green second lieutenant, not once.
One thing you would learn fast in the army and that was that the Sgt’s ran the show, and the good officers, the ones that are army smart and had been in combat let em do it – things got done right that way so why stick your nose into anything you don’t have to – that seemed to be the code of a good officer.
Our platoon Sergeant, he was in direct charge of the first platoon, all of the fifty young men of that platoon. His name was Sergeant Rogers. This was another old army man, with over fifteen years of service. He ran the first platoon, the platoon I was in. Technically he was supposed to report to our ROTC Second Lieutenant, but that formality never took place except for inspections and parade formations and all that formal stuff.
I do not remember anything about the other three platoons, they all had similar setups. So except for our Mess Sergeants and our Supply Sergeant these were the ones that would govern our life.
I guess I have to tell you about the Mess and Supply Sergeants. In the mess we had one Tech Sgt that was basically in charge, then two other ‘buck’ Sergeants (Just three stripes up) that did different shifts. There was one hell of difference in the ‘chow’ (food) during the shifts of those cooks. One of the buck sergeants was a heck of a baker, and he loved to bake pies and cakes. The smells coming out of that kitchen on his shift were heaven. We will get into the chow and mess hall later.
Our Supply Sergeant was another old timer. A crafty old bastard. I said before a good Supply Sergeant is a bandit, and part thief, the army system sort of demands it.
Every so often in the army they have what they call an ‘IG’ (Inspector General) Inspection. These are really rough. All the big shots show up at company level, some with white gloves on, snooping in corners and window sills for dirt. A lot of fun for the majors, Colonels, and sometimes the General having fun giving the troops a hard time.
One thing about ‘IG’ inspections is that they count all the supplies in the supply room. Every thing has to tally. Well, supply rooms never really tally, heck there is always a rifle short, a few blankets over, and so on. Now a good supply sergeant wasn’t too worried about something over, he could always hide that, it was the ‘under’ that was bad and could get him and the company in trouble.
In each regiment or battalion there were always some crucial items that were short. So the Supply Sergeants would find out who was going to be inspected first. I firmly believe that if you are made a supply sergeant you have to join a club. All of the supply sergeants were thick as glue, protected each other and swapped stuff back and forth. Not quite according to army regulations but they got the job done one way or the other.
The ‘Able’ company supply sergeant that was in the building where the regimental commanders had their offices was under extreme pressure. He ‘had’ to find out the order of inspection. The first supply room that was inspected had to have everything in it. Then when the inspection was complete at the first inspection site, the supply sergeants or their clerks would sneak any short items over to whatever supply room that was next on the inspection list. This would go on and on. Certain items had to have been counted two or three times.
It was all a game. The officers really did not give a damn, heck they knew stuff was missing now and then. They wanted the inspection to tally, how it was done was the supply Sergeant’s problem. I remember months after basic training when I had an ‘Adjutant General’ rating and was a Corporal, I was in the regimental offices doing our company’s payroll, I would be bringing over stuff to the company and the captain would be talking to our Top Sgt. He was talking about the supply sergeant, “He is a real bandit,” then he gave a chuckle and said, “but he is our bandit, and I’m damn glad to have him.”
More about the Peace Time army and your old buddy Fred in another week.
Love ya, Uncle Fred
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