Because it’s still close to Memorial Day, as close as I can get because I didn’t have anything in last Thursday’s edition and The Voice isn’t published Monday, I’d like to write about something military-related. The only military-related experience I have to draw on is my own two-year stretch, but what I experienced in those two years is enough to fill a book, which it already has: “The Militarized Zone: What Did You Do in the Army, Grandpa?”, available on Amazon, at your libraries or any retail establishment run by a proprietor with little discretion as to what is sold in the store.
When I was a lowly PFC (private first class) stationed at Fort Hood, deep in the armpit of Texas, I lived off post with my wife. Our small apartment complex was laid out just like a single story motel, with three buildings of four apartments each, all inhabited by Fort Hood Army-types. The building we were in backed up to a swamp, so in addition to the scorpions, tarantulas, and other run-of-the-mill Texas critters, we had a profusion of swamp life crawling, wriggling, or flying around at night outside our back door.
Out front, we were right across from the pool, which was great on 90°F Texas days, and meant most of them. I’d come home from my un-airconditioned office, dash inside to change, dash out and jump in the pool. Other guys did the same. My wife enjoyed her days at the pool with the Army wives, doing whatever Army wives do during the day, probably wondering why they were there. The population of Killeen, Texas, was 35,000, but if you subtracted Fort Hood, it dropped to 5,000.
I had a problem. Our apartment rent was $95 a month, which doesn’t sound like a problem with utilities, a swimming pool, and all the interesting wildlife included. The problem was that I earned $103 a month as a private first class. That only left $2 a week for groceries, gas, caviar, vacations to the French Riviera.
I needed a pay raise and the only way to get a pay raise in the Army, other than kidnapping a general’s daughter and holding her for ransom, is to get a promotion. In my case it was to the rank of specialist 4. I did a quick search through the Army regulations and discovered I didn’t have enough time in the grade of PFC, let alone enough time in the U. S. Army, to get promoted. I’d need waivers for both, and you’re only allowed one waiver. Plus, I’d need a letter of recommendation from my boss, which I knew would never happen because he was always on my back about something. Three strikes. But as a kid, I’d learned all I needed to know from watching years of Sergeant Bilko on a television show, and three strikes never mean you’re out.
I stuck the appropriate waiver forms in my typewriter. After filling them out, I typed up a heartfelt recommendation letter from my lieutenant boss, favorably comparing me to Mother Theresa with an M-16. I stuffed it all in a stack of miscellaneous papers I had for the lieutenant to sign.
When I went to his office, I started him in a conversation on his favorite topic, which was how much pressure he had on him and how much work he had. He flipped through the papers, signing each at the bottom, never bothering to read what he was signing. I ran out of the building with my forms and up the chain of command, to get each officer to sign my forms, and finally ending up at the print shop to have my promotion orders cut so I could get a copy in my financial records in time for the next payday.
On my way home I stopped at the PX, bought a pair of specialist 4 patches and later that night I sewed them on my khaki shirtsleeves. Sgt. Bilko would have been proud.
• I hope you had the opportunity to watch The Memorial Day Show from Washington, D.C.. It’s always a moving tribute to our veterans. This year, the tribute included our first responders and others who keep our civilization functioning. Our dearly beloved president managed to briefly make an appearance at Arlington Cemetery, looking as if he’d just bogeyed the 18th. If you’re still one of those individuals who believes The Donald, master of insincerity, actually cares about you and your concerns and would welcome you to Mar-a-Lago, here’s some breaking news: You can safely remove your MAGA hat. The mother ship has arrived and is ready to beam you up.