And it came to pass... wait a second, that's way too biblical. Well, to me it was almost biblical. Less than a week after buying the car I showed up at Schofield to find orders waitin' on me. Good orders. Save the day, my ass is out of the infantry, orders. Don't really know how or why but I was transferred to the MPs.
Back in Vietnam a whole platoon of us were transferred and trained as MPs. At Schofield only one of us ended up as a cop. The reason mighta been my shiny boots when I showed up for duty roundin' up AWOLs in Dong Tam. Mighta been my luck in the inspection. Mighta been Davy Heath. Mighta been a total crap shoot, luck of the draw kinda thing. An enlisted man never gets to find out those answers any more than why he was born left or right handed. Actually we all know the truth behind that. When a baby first scratches its butt, the hand he/she uses be the one. Forever and ever. Amen.
Not a one of those things passed through my mind when I skipped out the door. Didn't even head to the supply room and grab my second duffel stuffed with Vietnam outfits. Who needed that kinda crap anyhow? No more bein' confined to the Company area one week each month. No more pointless war games.
Took a couple days before I came to realize my new Platoon Sergeant was always pissed off at the world. Mostly 'cause he was always hung over. The Lieutenant who ran the show never seemed to be around so it was us EMs bein' told what to do by a small pack of cadre who couldn't make it in the real world of Military Police. You see, we were a field MP outfit. Mostly our duty was directing traffic during the war games and bein' loaned out to the real MPs for stuff they didn't much want to do. I'll get to what that was later.
But no matter, the crap we had to put up with as field MPs, the duty was a whole lot better than bein' a grunt.
Each day of the workweek I got to drive through Honolulu, up the valley between the Ko'olaus and the Wainais and had the Pacific Ocean in the rearview mirror. Out of the side window I watched the sugar cane turn into pineapple as I went uphill. Not bad for a flatlander who did most everything wrong since he entered the Army. All the while in the back of my brain there was this little voice. Been haunting me one way or the other for forty-three years. Keeps tellin' me how lucky I was. Supposed to have been in the 101st Airborne not in Hawaii.
There's this image of Death, you know, the guy with the boney fingers and scythe, he's checkin' his list one day and comes upon my name. S'pose to be checked off way back when. But, you see, it was the late 60s, and the man in black was stoned out of his gourd through most of March '69 and part of April. Didn't get me to the plane on time. Yeah, he worked his fleshless ass off tryin' to catch up with his cadaver makin' but was in such a hurry he missed me completely. Ol' Death, he's smart enough to not make a big deal out of the screwup. After all he's only Death, not some big shot god. Could get his ass in a wringer with the big boys. So he kept his mouth shut.
So there I am, drivin' uphill in the land of the pineapple, smokin' a cigarette and listenin' to Creedence on the radio. The gettin' there was a good ride 'cause the gettin' back to the little apartment made it all worthwhile. The in-between, not so hot.
It was with the field MPs that I honed my skills of tactical incompetence. Got 'er done when asked or ordered but not too fast or with anything approaching skill. Make the NCOs pay in frustration. Most of all I tried not to be seen. Like standin' in front of a rhino. They don't see good, so if you don't move they're not sure if you're still there. They know you were there but ain't so sure you still are. Then their little brain bags the whole affair and forgets the whole matter.
A lot like workin' for a twenty year Staff Sergeant. One rocker after two decades meant he's never gonna get the second one. Frustration, depression, and finally resignation that he's not goin' anywhere. At least anywhere where the liquor costs more.
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