One in a continuing series
Concerning the further adventures of PFC Chas:
The Third Armored Medical Company, a.k.a. the “Third Herd,” in the land of door handles (Germany) was logistically a MASH (mobile army surgical hospital) unit, but we never performed similar to a MASH unit. We were too busy playing soldier in edifying activities such as KP (kitchen police, or orderlies in the mess hall), guard duty, grounds-keeping, trash-hauling, endless lectures on combat-style injuries, and fun and games in the field.
The Herd in the 1950s was divided into four platoons, headquarters (clerks, cooks, mechanics), ambulance (drivers), litter (stretcher-bearers, not trash collectors), and set-up (tents, cots, and assorted medical paraphernalia). I was originally assigned to ambulance platoon; but, when I informed the platoon sergeant that I had never driven a truck, I was immediately transferred to litter platoon. Having no bodies to transport in peace time, this platoon was responsible for perimeter defense while in the field; more on this shortly. You never knew when the commies would pour over the Czech border to murder us in our sleep.
Guard duty for Nuremberg Post was one obligation I never understood. We were supposed to be medical personnel rather than combat soldiers. I voiced an opinion in this regard, but no one paid me any heed. I learned early in life how to be ignored.
The armed forces of the United States of America were absolute fanatics when it came to facial hair, beards, and moustaches. The ideal soldier must be clean-shaven 24/7 or know the reason why, don’t you know? I showed up for guard duty one afternoon with a five o’clock shadow, and the Officer of the Guard kindly pointed out the errors of my way. I was ordered to return to my barracks, shave, and report back for duty within 15 minutes.
Guard duty was an absolute bore. Two-hour shifts of walking around and trying to stay awake all through the night was the norm. One notable exception was the protection of Nuremberg Post’s munitions depot in the middle of nowhere. It was a two-man posting; one man walked around the perimeter outside of the fence in a clockwise fashion, while the other man walked around the perimeter inside the fence in a counter-clockwise fashion. Twice, I was paired with a fellow nicknamed “Shaky Jake,” because he had a nervous disposition. He had a love affair with fire and things which caused fire, such as a munitions depot, maybe?
Shaky opted to be the inside man, which made me nervous! When he was thoroughly bored from walking around, he broke open a crate full of 50-caliber machine-gun ammunition, grabbed a handful of cartridges, opened them up, extracted the gun powder inside, and set fire to it. The look of glee on his face was a wonder to behold. I do believe he would have had an orgasm while setting fire to the entire depot.
Perimeter defense in the field consisted of two components: Human bodies and a system of booby traps, both of which were routinely placed around the perimeter. The booby traps were low-explosive grenades attached to trees and to tripwires; the arrangement served as a warning that the commies were coming.
One chilly December evening, I had just finished my shift when Mother Nature chose to call me. From the tone of her voice, it was an urgent call. I immediately repaired to the nearest latrine and made myself as comfortable as I could. Unbidden, the thought came into my head: wouldn’t it be funny if one of the booby traps was set off right then. Well guess what? Right the first time!
So, did I rush back to camp to see what the matter was? No-o-o-o. I simply finished my call, walked nonchalantly back to camp, and innocently asked the first person I saw what had happened. Apparently, one of the Herd had forgotten where the booby traps were placed and stumbled into one. The commies weren’t coming after all.
There is a post-script to this incident. The next morning, after breakfast, I was wandering about in a meditative mood and suddenly spied a pile of human excrement next to a tree and the remains of a booby trap. This sight was proof positive of the expression, “get the s*** scared out of you.”
One more guard-duty story. I was relaxing in the guards’ barracks when the Officer of the Guard burst in, pointed his finger at me and one other victim, uh, soldier, and shouted, “You! And you! Come with me!” On the move, the OG explained that a soldier had been reported running hither and yon (my words, not his) and shouting incoherently at the top of his voice. It was our duty to apprehend the fellow before he harmed himself or others. I wondered how I had managed to be recruited into the military police, whose job this really was, not aloud, of course, because the military is not a very good venue for rational discourse. Orders are orders, don’t you know?
We found the miscreant in due time. He was incoherent and agitated. It was a Saturday night, so we concluded that he was drunker than a skunk and needed to be subdued. We did subdue him, only temporarily, and he was off again, leading us on a merry chase, shouting and gesticulating all the while. Fortunately for us, he lost his balance, fell to the ground, and knocked himself out. Unfortunately for us, that is to say, we guards, not the OG, we had to carry the miscreant all the way to the stockade.
Did the OG commend us for our able assistance? No-o-o-o.
To be continued….