Now that we had a place to stay Lois began to get her ducks in order so they could swim to Hawaii, while she flew. Me, I continued to play soldier. And learned the new bad news. That each company in the Battalion was on call one week each month. That meant bein' confined to post. Even if you lived off post. Life as a peace side grunt seemed to always find a new way to suck.
Toppin' that off was our upcoming yearly inspection, the Big One. The one that called for the total miseries should we flunk it. If we didn't pass this inspection there wouldn't be enough vaseline on Oahu to ease the rippin', tearin' and bleedin' us enlisted men would suffer. But, you see, I didn't know nothin' about that. To me an inspection was what you went through every Saturday mornin' in Basic Trainin'. You got your shit in order, the Captain walked through pissin' and moanin', then we had the rest of the weekend off. No sweat.
Good that I me had a new friend. A friend with three stripes. A Hawaiian sergeant who took a likin' to me 'cause I had new jungle fatigues direct from Vietnam and was willin' to share.
The night before the inspection he suggested that I get a haircut. That rankled me a bit seein' as how hair was a big deal back then. I was peacock proud 'cause mine was long enough to comb and part. Not exactly hippie length but you took what you could get. But I saw the logic of his suggestion. Hair wasn't everything. So I trotted across the quad to the local hair remover. Had the man take some off the sides. Trotted back.
My man took a look and asked if I'd gotten a haircut. Course I said I did, mostly 'cause I'd paid my buck and a quarter and my hat fit looser.
He looked me in the eye, said, "No doubt you know best. But think of it this way. Your wife flyin' in tomorrow (and she was). We flunk the inspection, you're not gonna be there when she lands. How you feel then? Better yet, how she feel?"
I trotted back across the quad. And the man doesn't even charge me for the extra twelve seconds of removal. Came back buzzed to the nubs.
So I've gotta tell the truth, I more or less wrote the following a few years ago. But she doesn't need a lot of bendin' to make it sound right:
Next day came the inspection itself. What went on in the squad bay fits into my own little conspiracy theory. Not up there with the grassy knoll or the CIA doin' in Marilyn Monroe 'cause she knew too much. But it affected me in a personal way and that's way more important in my book.
Before the ogres came in spittin' fire, all my gear was double and triple checked by myself and my squad leader. All the buttons were buttoned, all was strack. Comin' into the squad bay after the inspection a pile of my uniforms were torn from their hangers and dumped on my bunk. Like they'd been improperly displayed. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe not, but I figured some higher up in the company wanted my ass in a slinger for bein' AWOL. And, if we flunked, the finger would be pointed at me and others like me. Lois would show up at the airport and there'd be no me. Just a singing telegram I'd send her:
"You're here and I'm not. Send flowers to the stockade.
I'd be there if I could but I've been arrested I'm afraid."
While the demons were in the squad bay all of us shakin' in our boots GI's were out on the lanai standin' the personal inspection. We stood sweatin', at attention in our cleanest, starched so they could stand on their own, dress khakis. Bullet straight rows, weapons in hand. A team of Majors - yeah they used Majors 'cause they were an in between rank and had nothin' to do during the day except sober up from the last night's fun at the Officer's Club - went down the ranks, inspectin' each man and weapon for cleanliness, sufficient lube in one and lack of it in the other.
One at a time each GI stood knee deep in his own personal hell as His High Rankliness eyeballed him top to bottom. Then asked questions concerning duties, weapon serial number and chain of command. Chain of command was the toughie. A GI had to know each of the monkeys on the tree from president on down to squad leader. Guess that was in case the Secretary of Defense should stop by one day and have him a cold one at the beer garden, we'd know enough to call out, "Hey Mel, what's happenin'?" I was sixth in line.
We'd all drilled on the chain. Knew it top to bottom. First man blew his answer. Oh me. As did the second, third, fourth and fifth. Up shit creek and we ain't found the pole yet.
Then it's my turn. I snapped to, cracked the barrel of the M-49 in my hands, gave the chamber a glance and handed it over. The Man saw my CIB and asked my role in Vietnam. This time I was smart enough to not to say I was a student. Said I'd been an RTO, "A radioman sir." Inside I was a mess. Like the curse was takin' over my soul. Bye-bye Lois.
He asked me the serial number of the weapon and I started to reel it off. Then halted, knowin' I'm screwin' the pooch. On my hip hung the grenadier's regulation .45 caliber pistol. And I'm reelin' off its serial number. A moment's pause and I said, "Excuse me sir I'm givin' you the serial number of my pistol by mistake." Then fired off the correct number.
He paused a moment then asked me no less than a half dozen members of the chain. I nailed 'em. The Man then leaned forward and softly said, "Thank you." Then pulled out a pad and wrote down my name. No shit. I speak the truth. He finished the squad by inspecting each weapon but asked no more questions.
The inspection over, we hung around smokin' cigarettes and excretin' bricks. We knew we hadn't broken any records. All we wanted was a passin' score. Be done with the misery for a year. Yeah, we passed. Word said it was by a cut hair. Now I ain't sayin' this is true but had I blown my answers we'd have been goin' nowhere without scrub buckets for a long time. No one said anything about what happened. No one knew anything about me and the Major. But his simple 'thank you' meant a lot. Maybe even came up in the meetin' among the mucky-mucks.
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