On handling special orders in U.S. Army back in the day

Just as in years past around Memorial Day, I like to write a military-themed column, sometimes dealing with my illustrious military career, the last half of which was spent in the offices of U.S. Eighth Army Headquarters G-1 in Seoul, Korea. My fellow troopers and I were ready at a moment’s notice to neutralize any of Kim Jong-il’s North Korean commies who tried to sneak in and hijack our paper clips.
Before I left the unairconditioned Weber-grill-like offices of the First Armored Division Adjutant General at Fort Hood, Texas, for Korea as a lowly Private First Class, I figured I could use a promotion. The problem was I hadn’t been in the Army long enough or spent enough time as a PFC to qualify for one, even with waivers. Then there was the futility of getting a letter of recommendation from my CO (commanding officer) who thought of me as an abscessed tooth. Taking matters into my own hands, I filled out the necessary request forms and typed up a glowing letter of recommendation. To get my CO to sign the things, I slipped them into a stack of other papers requiring his signature. He was constantly in a frustrated rush and rarely read what he was signing, so he signed my materials along with everything else and handed the stuff back to me. I was off to get the additional signatures required.
Before noon I had them all. No one had questioned the waivers or recommendation. I supposed each officer who signed foolishly assumed the previous endorser knew what he was doing. Now all I needed was to have orders cut. I nearly skipped to the print shop as I had done practically every day since I’d been at Fort Hood, only this time I was happier. I opened the door and stepped up to the counter.
“Hi, Joe,” I called to the specialist 4 at one of the two presses.
He returned the greeting, wiped his hands on his denim apron and walked over. “You’re early today. Usual stuff?”
“Well…actually, I need a favor… Could you cut these orders by three today?”
He looked them over. “Hey, these are for you!”
“Could you do it?”
“If you can do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Get my brother-in-law a special duty assignment.”
“Can he swim? Or even just flap his arms and kick so it looks like he can?” I asked.
“I’ve seen him floating around the pool—face up even.”
“Close enough. I’ll make him a lifeguard down at one of the beaches.”
At 1 p.m. I was back at the print shop, ready to grab my promotion orders and head off to Finance.
“Got my orders, Joe?”
“Uh, yeah, but… Snyder spotted something,” he said in a loud whisper. “He wants to talk to you.” Joe turned toward 1LT Snyder, seated at his desk in the back of the shop. “Johnson’s here, sir,” Joe called.
The lieutenant made his way to the counter. “Private Johnson, it seems something’s amiss with this request of yours. These waivers are out of line.”
“Could be, sir. My typewriter is very old.”
“When I say ‘out of line’ I mean you’re way short on time in service and time in grade to be eligible for a promotion.”
“Really, sir?”
“Really, Johnson. I don’t know why your lieutenant would have signed these things.” He looked me in the eye. “You work in Personnel and check records all day long, and you know what I think? I think you pushed these waivers and this glowing testimonial through, hoping no one would bother to read them before signing off.”
“I can’t imagine dedicated, responsible officers in positions of authority would not read something they were signing, can you, sir?
“You handle Special Duty Assignments, don’t you?”
“For enlisted men. PFC O’Connor assigns officers.”
“I understand Division is looking for a first-lieutenant-type special duty officer to take charge of the grounds at the Officer’s Club Golf Course.”
“Okay….”
“If that officer were me, I would probably be too busy getting my files squared away before I left the print shop to notice any abnormalities in promotion orders passing through this office.”
“I’ll be right back, sir.” I dashed out and across to our building and up the stairs to PFC O’Connor’s office.
“Pat, I need you to do me a big favor.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I need you to assign Lieutenant Snyder from the print shop to be in charge of the golf course at the officer’s club.
“Really. What’s it worth to you?”
“Whadda you want?”
“I can’t find anybody to take my guard duty Friday night.”
“All right, I’ll do it. Just hurry and get going on orders for Snyder.”
He picked up a blank order request and stuck it in his typewriter.
When I got to the print shop, the lieutenant was still by the counter reading the Stars & Stripes. “Sir, PFC O’Connor’s typing the request now.”
“Thank you, Johnson. Here are your orders.” He handed me the papers.
“Yes, sir!” I saluted and hustled out the door to the Finance Office where I turned in a copy of my orders. Then it was over to Admin to slip a copy in my files, and finally to the PX to pick up a set of specialist 4 stripes. I stitched them on one of my khaki shirts by hand that night.
There was no longer a doubt in my mind that the Lord helps those who help themselves. Also, must have been in the Army at some point.