Weekday warriors Part 4: One more time...

Weekday Warriors

Part 4 – One more time…

By

Mike Brown

Published by BigPencilGroup on Smashwords

Weekday Warriors Part 4 – One more time… Copyright © 2011 by Mike Brown

Chapter Fifty

2nd Lt Glenn Turnbull or LT Bull had been our platoon leader for two years. By our standards, he had been an excellent officer: a good administrator, not overly spit and polish or hard core and even a competent tanker. Bull had tended to let the platoon run itself on a day-to-day basis unless we told him we needed something. We considered it a sad day when he got his 1st Lt bars and with them an assignment as XO of a line company in 3/47 Armor. We just got him good and broke in. Smokey said when he left. It was a sentiment the rest of us shared.

Our new Platoon Leader was 2nd Lt Thomas Braden. He was a kind of mousy looking little guy with glasses, a wispy mustache and a receding hairline. Fresh from the ROTC program at some college in the Northeast via Armor Officer Basic at Ft Knox, he looked like a worrier. It was not his only major flaw. A lot of new 2nd lieutenants have a sort of an attitude problem. Many of them are highly impressed with their new status as Officers and Gentlemen, by Act of Congress. Some of them tend to forget they are actually trained more to be managers than leaders. Also, the lowly enlisted and NCO types under their command have forgotten more about the operation of a tank (or a platoon of them) than they may ever know.

The new officer attitude manifested itself in many ways. Lt Braden, for example, liked to be saluted. I mean REALLY liked to be saluted, as in almost constantly. A couple of times a day around the motor pool is one thing, but Braden expected you to come to attention and salute every time he walked by, no matter what you were doing or if you'd just caught him thirty seconds before. I think it did things for his ego to have people snapping to for him left and right. We figured that the novelty would wear off after a while.

Then there was Braden's attitude about the tanks. It was as though he thought that being on a tank was some kind of military Purgatory. Most of us would not have admitted it, but being on a tank is kind of fun in its own way, provided no one is shooting at you. Since pretty much anybody that was on a tank in the mid 1970's had volunteered for or made their Army career specifically tanks, we naturally had a little trouble dealing with this particular aspect of Lt Braden.

At first we weren't willing to believe that an officer could be as hopelessly ignorant as Braden seemed to be, but then he proved it to us.

Smokey and some of the guys decided to play a greenie trick on him, a variation on the winter weight liquid squelch gag. Generally the victim of the trick catches on pretty quickly that he is on the proverbial wild goose chase.

Smokey and Braden’s gunner, SGT Willie Garth, corralled our turret mechanic, SP4 John MacGuinness, in the mess hall early one morning and talked in him into unfocusing the telescopic sight reticle on Braden’s tank, the idea being to send Braden looking for new crosshairs. It didn't take much talking. Mac thought the idea was hilarious and readily agreed to help.

The beauty of it is, he can't really get us in any official type deep shit for doing it to him! Smokey chuckled. If he catches on right away, we tell him we were just seeing if he was awake. If it takes him a while until he finally DOES catch on, he can't say too much without looking pretty stupid!

Down at the motor pool, Smokey filled everyone in on the plan, so no one would accidentally screw it up. I got to be the triggerman. I was sitting on the front slope of 13, which sat directly across from Braden's tank, 16. As Braden approached, I put down the logbook I was updating, hopped down, popped off a neat salute and loudly called the area to attention. Everybody dropped what they were doing and went through the first round of daily submission.

Morning, Lieutenant! I boomed out cheerily. Squatting on the fender of 16, hidden behind the turret, Willie and Smokey popped up. Smokey nodded at me. Mac was all set down inside the turret.

Braden looked me up and down before returning my salute and replying Morning, O’neil. As you were, everyone, carry on. Everyone drifted back to their various jobs.

Smokey and Willie leaned into the hatches on 16, looking very intent. Smokey looked up as Braden walked up to the fender.

Mornin, Ell-Tee! He drawled, snapping off a casual salute.

Morning, Pritchardt. What's going on here, Garth? Something wrong in there? Braden asked warily.

MacGuiness is down inside now, checking out our sights. Willie replied. We seem to have a small problem, sir.

Mac stuck his head up on cue. You ought to come see this, sir. It's a new one on me.

The LT looked at the three of them, then glared at the tank. He looked rather displeased about having to get up on it, let alone in it.

Oh, very well, I'll be right up.

Braden clambered awkwardly up the front slope and slowly made his way down the TC's hatch. We tended to scramble around and in the tanks like a bunch of monkeys in the trees. To us they were a natural part of our daily lives. Braden moved like he was in a hostile alien environment. It was like he was waiting for the tank to try and bite him.

Once Braden was down inside, Mac pointed at the sights in the gunners position.

What's the problem here, Macguiness?

Sight reticles are all fuzzy, Sir. Mac tapped on the telescopic secondary sight with one finger, Damnedest thing I've ever seen.

Braden crawled into the gunners seat and peered into the eyepiece. He blinked, rubbed at the lens and his eye, and then peered into the sight again.

Any idea how to fix it?

Mac shrugged. Not exactly sure what the problem is yet, sir.

Hey, maybe the crosshairs are just worn out, man. Smokey, leaning down in the loaders hatch, suggested. Might be a bad set.

Could be it. Mac looked up at Smokey and nodded slowly. It's worth a try if we could get a set of crosshairs. He frowned, turning to Braden, who was crawling back from the gunners seat. I think you'd have to get those from the Motor Sgt for us, Lt. Anything to do with optics is Sensitive Item shit. You'll have to sign for `em, the way things are these days.

You think that will solve the problem, Macguiness? Braden asked, looking back at the sights.

Couldn't hurt.

Braden crawled out of the tank and went to company Maintenance to requisition a set of crosshairs. We waited in the platoon area for the explosion that never came. SFC Johansen, the Motor Sgt, apparently thought it was funny enough that he simply told Braden he didn't have any crosshairs in stock at the moment and suggested that Braden ask at B company next door, then phoned ahead to warn B Co's Motor Sgt what was going on as soon as Braden walked out. Johansen told us what was happening when Smokey and I went looking for the LT a few minutes later. He and our XO\ Motor Officer, Lt Eastman, were still chuckling when we left.

The size of our conspiracy began to expand at this point as we shadowed our Fearless Leader from office to office through every tank company maintenance section on the post, following the trail of snickering senior NCO's and junior Officers.

Two hours, nine company and three battalion level maintenance shops later, Braden arrived at Brigade Maintenance Turret Shop. A rather time worn Warrant Officer 4 known as Chief Gramps told him that it wasn't too surprising that there weren't any spare sets of crosshairs on the post, but offered to call a friend in the Turret Shop down at the Division Depot, which was about twenty klicks away on the outskirts of Frankfurt, along with the rest of Division HQ.

The guy down at Division apparently knew a good gag in progress when they saw one. They admitted that they had a few sets left, but advised Braden that he'd better come get them in person because they were a high demand item and hard to come by.

We later found out that the guys at Div. Depot pulled a few straight black hairs from a dilapidated push broom and put them in a small plastic zip bag with a label they typed up for the occasion. Once they finally stopped laughing enough to type.

Braden didn't have a car, so he immediately checked out a jeep from our Motor Sergeant. By some bizarre twist of fate he chose Smokey to be his driver and headed for Division HQ.

Smokey filled us in when he got back.

Down at Division, this Bird Colonel in fatigues walks past Lt Braden when he gets out of the jeep. He looks at the bumper number and asks Braden what we’re doing so far from home. Guy was an Armor officer.

When Braden told him he was picking up crosshairs for his telescopic sights I couldn’t decide if I should crawl under the jeep and hide, or bust out laughing. The Colonel smiles, sends Braden on his way and strolls around to me.

The guy leans on the windshield frame and smiles at me. New crosshairs for the telescopic sights, Specialist? Man, the eagles on his collar and baseball cap looked this big! Smokey held his hands about a foot apart. And they were subdued black, not brass!

What happened? Someone asked

When in doubt, sir them to death. So I said ‘Yes sir, I guess so, sir. That's what the LT said, anyway, sir. He's kinda green, sir. He's only been with us a month, sir’. Smokey chuckled. He asked if we were gonna pick up any liquid squelch or left handed wrenches while we were here. I figured I might be up shit creek but he starts laughing.

He recognized my nametag. Turns out he knows the Generality from back in ‘nam. But Braden comes out and sees this Bird Colonel shooting the breeze with me and just about pisses himself. Smokey shook his head. Goofy little fucker ain’t got no more business runnin’ a tank platoon than I would bein’ the goddamn Pope.

We came to the conclusion that Lt-wise, we were in serious trouble.

In mid September, we headed out for REFORGER 77: Operation Carry Through. It was a typical European autumn, the leaves were turning colors… the weather sucked. A light rain had been falling all night, just enough to make life uncomfortable. Ever been in the woods in the rain, on a motorcycle, in the dark? Get about ten feet off the ground where the lower tree branches are and you get a pretty good idea what life as a tank commander in peacetime is like. Running around the forests of Germany in a tank in the rain was not my idea of big time fun, but rain is one of those things that’s just part of the deal. As the saying goes, it doesn’t rain IN the Army, just ON the Army. The actual exercise kicked off at 2200. Naturally enough, Braden in the 16 led the platoon column. Within minutes he had somehow gotten us separated from the rest of the company. By 2300, we were ‘Lima Lima Alpha Mike Foxtrot’. (un-official Army-ese radio abbreviation: ‘Lost Like A Mother-Fucker’) For some reason he avoided anything that even looked like a town. Instead, we drove around most of the night looking for exactly what only Braden knew and he wasn’t telling…

I think we're moving north, Stu said. We were bouncing along a narrow dirt forest maintenance road running Tail End Charlie for the platoon as usual. Stu and I were standing in the two turret hatches trying to duck low tree branches in the dark. Wet tree branches.

And what brings you to that conclusion? I flinched down in my cupola as a branch slapped across the top of my CVC helmet. My sole consolation was that Braden, leading the column, was getting the same treatment I was.

I bet you that’s the sun rising off to the right. Since the sun rises in the east we must be traveling north. Stu replied with a yawn, pointing to our right at a slight graying of the darkness.

Don't be too sure, Smokey’s voice came over the intercom from the drivers compartment, Lt Numb-nuts could probably have a wet dream and get the fuckin’ clap. Pat, can you ask Stupid 6 if we can stop for a minute? I'm about to piss my pants, man.

I'll try. I keyed in the radio. Hotel 56, Hotel 56, this is Hotel 53, over?

Hotel 53, this is Hotel 56. Go ahead, over.

Hotel 56, my Delta element reports that we need to make a brief maintenance stop, Over?

Hotel 53, what is the exact nature of the problem, over?

Ah, Hotel 56, he says his back teeth are floating, over. I could imagine the rest of the platoon, who would be monitoring the radio, chuckling at that, but not Braden. There was a long pause.

Very well, Hotel 53. he finally replied in the same aggrieved tone of voice your father used when you made the same kind of request when you were on car trips. All Hotel 5 elements, this is Hotel 56. We will be stopping for morning chow break at this time. Hotel 56, out. Once we were parked we broke out a partial case of C rations and settled down to our breakfast. Smokey got out our small camp stove and started some coffee as soon as he finished his personal business.

Even at the best of times, C's are not on my list of favorite foods, or anybody else’s list either. But some particular meal units or specific items are marginally better than others, so we played a version of roulette to pick our meals, just to try to keep from arguing over little things like who had to eat the Ham & Eggs, Chopped or Tuna Fish. You have to actively try to get along in the close quarters of a tank. We opened the bottom of the case so that the marking on the individual meal packs weren't visible and picked at random. After a while we noticed that each case was packed in exactly the same order, so we would take turns spinning the box around on the back deck and grabbing a meal.

I got Pork Slices, with Juice. Stu got Beans & Meatballs, in Sauce, one of the better ones and fairly palatable, for a C-ration. Smokey drew the dreaded Tuna Fish.

How the hell are you supposed to eat this shit with no mayonnaise? Not even a little pepper, for crissake. He grumbled as he opened the can and used the lid to drain the contents. Look at this crap! I could lube the whole fuckin' tank with all this oil. Yuck, man!

You got the Spaghetti last night, asshole, I pointed out, Quit bitching. There’s salt and pepper in the coffee kit. Years of hunting trips and such had taught me how to pack.

Wanna swap yer pork slices? He asked hopefully. You like the tuna fish sandwiches enough in the mess hall. He pointed out quite accurately. I dodged the offer neatly.

Not unless you got a jar of Miracle Whip and a couple of slices of bread on you.

If I had a jar of Miracle Whip I'd use it. He chuckled. Then I’d eat my sandwich in front of you just to make you feel like shit.

Not over that tuna you wouldn’t.

Yeah, there's that... He eyed the can. They ought to use this slime as a secret weapon. He glanced over at Stu, who was heating up his Beans & Meatballs by burning the cardboard box the meal came in around the can itself. Hey, Stu…

Don't even ask. Stu replied without looking up. Smokey shrugged.

Oh well, fuck me again, Martha. Tuna fish for breakfast. He sighed and began spooning the oily stuff out onto the rather stale crackers that came in the C-ration with the tuna. At least the coffee's about ready.

Midway through breakfast Ray’s new loader showed up, a skinny little black kid named Johnson. He had a can of applesauce in one hand, a plastic spoon in the other and paused in his meal just long enough to talk to me.

Hey, Sergeant O’neil? The Boss said he want to see you over at 12 when you done eatin' or in ten minutes, whichever come first. He grinned at me, He said to wear your walkin' shoes, man.

Message received and understood, slick. I frowned down at my boots. Walking shoes, huh?

That's what the man said, sarge. S'cuse me, y'all. He turned and headed back, still working on his breakfast.

Smokey looked at Stu. You feel like a second cup of coffee this morning, Stu? He turned back to me and smiled. Now that we're going to be sitting here a while, I thought I might make another pot.

Ten minutes later I strolled up to the 12. Ray was seated against a tree trunk working on a canteen cup of coffee probably just as bad as the one I was working on. It didn't look like the caffeine was helping all that much. He just grunted when I greeted him. I offered him a hand up. He needed it.

You look about like I feel, Boss. I offered in consolation. He managed a weak grin.

You must feel like shit then, cause I know that's what I look like. I’m gettin’ a little old to pull all-nighters. I need my beauty sleep. He swigged at his coffee and glared in the general direction of 16 and Lt Braden. I feel sorry for anybody that ever goes on a vacation by car with that guy doing the driving. He muttered as Jake walked up.

With our marvelous maximum leader? Jake asked. Morning, Boss. What’s our situation?

Oh, the coffee and the weather suck, I haven’t had any sleep to speak of, we’re lost as hell and I can’t raise anyone on the goddamn radio. Other than that it’s a fine morning. Ray smiled at Jake. You and your partner here are going to go find out where the fuck we are, He looked around for someone, as soon as Van Gendall shows up. Johnson!

The radio part didn’t surprise me. Sometimes atmospheric conditions made it tough to talk between tanks a few hundred yards apart. The new loader came around the corner of the tank. Yeah, boss?

Did you find Van Gendall for me, Johnson? Ray asked. Johnson nodded. I don't see him here.

Johnson shrugged. I tol’ him ten minutes, boss, jus’ like you said. You want I should go find him again?

Bring him back with you this time.

Johnson nodded again and took off. A minute later he shepherded a form wrapped in a poncho into our presence. Jake and I looked at each other. A poncho? It was barely drizzling and here this kid was bundled up for the monsoon season. The Boss, Jake and I were wearing the ‘old timers’ standard field uniform: mechanics coveralls over fatigues and combat boots, CVC’s and goggles.. Jake had his .45 in a standard issue shoulder holster while Ray and I had hip holsters on pistol belts.

Van Gendall was so `cruit' he even looked green, but all new guys fresh out of Ft. Knox have that look. It's mostly the brand new un-faded uniforms. But with Van Gendall there was more to it than just the new issue fatigues. He looked like what my mom would call petulant. It's difficult to describe. I got the same sort of attitude from Lt Braden, a feeling that this guy thought it was somehow beneath him to be dealing with you. Van Gendall had only been with the outfit for a few days before REFORGER started and he'd already managed to rub most of the platoon the wrong way. I hadn’t had much direct contact with him, but he'd been put into Smokey and Horse’s room. According to Smokey, Van Gendall was ‘a lazy slob and a whiney fucker to boot’. Ron Flood, his TC on 14, had told me that he didn't want the guy on his crew for gunnery.

Take off the poncho, Van Gendall. Ray said with a yawn. I want to be sure it's really you under there.

But it's raining. Van Gendall replied in a whiney voice, pulling the hood down off his head and taking off his baseball cap.

He must think he’s gonna melt. Jake chuckled.

Shut up, Leibermann! Van Gendall snapped.

AT EASE, VAN GENDALL!! The Ray barked in his best Drill Sergeant voice, freezing the new private like a statue. You can just save the smart-ass for your own time. You got that, young man?

Van Gendall nodded and finished taking off his poncho. Under the poncho he had on the standard new issue un-faded newbie fatigues and field jacket. He wadded up the poncho, put his baseball cap back on and leaned against the fender of 12. He looked like a street corner punk, right down to the off hand crammed into a pocket.

Something was missing. When he opened his field jacket to get into his shirt pocket, it suddenly came to me: no weapon. Army shoulder holsters have a securing strap that runs around your chest. Since shoulder holsters for .45 pistols are standard issue for tank crewmen (I had bought my own hip holster at clothing sales) Van Gendall should have had a black leather strap running across his chest just like Jake did. I nudged Jake and pointed at Van Gendall.

What's wrong with this picture, Jake? I whispered. Jake frowned and squinted at Van Gendall.

I'm not good at guessing games early in the... Holy Shit! He choked, Hey, Van Gendall? He asked, Where's your weapon? I don't see a holster.

It's in my duffle bag on the tank, Van Gendall snapped around the cigarette he was lighting, What's it to you, anyway, Leibermann? I know where it is.

Up until that moment I had never seen Ray Bennett really lose his temper.

IN YOUR DUFFLE BAG?!? Ray spun on Van Gendall and snatched him away from the fender bodily by the front of his field jacket, sending the cigarette flying. Johnson and John Vinton (Ray's gunner) skated around the front of the tank out of the blast radius as Ray exploded. WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, YOU IGNORANT LITTLE SHITBIRD, BACK ON THE GODDAMN BLOCK? Van Gendall's nose was about two inches from Ray's. His toes were barely grazing the ground. As he roared at Van Gendall, Ray shook him hard for emphasis at particular points in the lecture. Don't you ever, EVER lose personal contact with your fucking weapon again in this platoon or I will personally kick your stupid ass clear across the fucking Atlantic and back up into the guts of whatever worthless, stinking, worm infested whore made the mistake of shitting you into this world in the first place! You got that, Private?!

Van Gendall nodded frantically and squeaked something that sounded like Yes, Sgt Bennett.

Now, get your ass back here with that weapon five fucking minutes ago!! Ray snarled, throwing him in the general direction of 14. Van Gendall stumbled and hit the ground at a dead run. Ray turned back to us. I was doing my best to look like I was waiting for a strasse. Jake shook his head sadly.

What's your problem, Jake? Think I'm being too rough on him or something? Ray asked as he caught his breath.

No, but my Uncle Sid had a heart attack from doing things like that a couple years back. Jake said. He’s okay now, but why take chances, you know?

Ray massaged the bridge of his nose and took a few deep breaths before he replied.

Good point. Stupid little shits like him aren't worth getting worked up over.

Suddenly we heard a voice from the general direction of the 14. THAT'S IT!! I'VE HAD IT UP TO HERE WITH YOU, YOU STUPID LITTLE SHIT!!

Van Gendall beat Ron over to us at 12 by about ten seconds, .45 and shoulder holster in hand. Ron stomped up right behind him.

Ray, I will not be responsible for this useless turd with ears any more! I don't care if he's the last goddamn loader in all of V Corps! He said, glaring at Van Gendall. I'm serious, Boss. Either get him off my tank or me and the boys are gonna kill him. No shit.

Ray looked at Van Gendall standing there with his weapon and holster. He pointed at me and Jake standing off to one side.

You two see if you can square this troop away for me while I talk to Ron, OK? Move it, Van Gendall.

I let Jake handle the