People You Meet Along the Way...
The Army owns a lot of stuff. Every unit has literally millions of dollars worth of equipment, funiture, appliances, bedding, cooking utensils, tools...on and on. Each unit's stuff is accounted for in the unit's Property Book. The Commander signs for everything, the Property Book Officer manages it all. Every piece of equipment is loaned out to the users on a "hand receipt". A platoon sergeant, for example, when he is newly arrived, will hold a platoon inventory where every single item the platoon uses is counted and compared to the platoon hand receipt and then the platoon sergeant signs for everything...and if he is smart, he immediately makes the users sign for the stuff from him. When a unit changes commanders, the whole company's inventory is done and it can take weeks. The guy who is ultimately responsible for keeping track of all this stuff is the supply sergeant.
Supply sergeants are on the short list of people you do NOT want to make mad. A good supply sergeant always maintains extra stuff that is not on the books...this is called "Excess" and is a no no. If you have excess, someone else is short. Too bad. Supply sgts live for the deal...Trump would have been only a mediocre supply sgt. When you need, you go to supply...the paperwork on requisitioning something new is daunting...but the supply guy can probably get you one in a week or two without all that red tape. A good supply sergeant is a huge blessing to a unit. Supply sergeants meet in snack bars all over Germany cutting deals...sitting in clubs at night...sending trucks all over Germany to swap this for that...Milo Minderbinder in Catch-22 epitomizes the supply sergeant...most people think that book was fiction...huh.
The 37 year old PFC came to Bad Kissingen as a 36 year old SSG...to run the supply room. He was the typical supply guy, wheeling and dealing...club to club...snack bar to snack bar...club to club...and another club...in fact...one too many clubs. His downfall was strectching a bit too far...
In the old days, the single most important inspection a unit faced every year was the Annual General Inspection...or AGI...or as all the GIs called it...the IG. Three days of intense inspections of every aspect of the unit. Operations, training, admin, supply, weapons, ammo, fuel, barracks, work areas...everything. For weeks before the inspection started, we painted everything, rubbed hydraulic fluid on baseboards (makes 'em shiny ...before it rots the wood...timing is important) polished, scrubbed, counted, recounted, just constant work on everything you could think of. The 37 year old PFC was tasked to come up with some gray paint for the basement floors and shower rooms. It just wasn't happening. No one had any...or they couldn't part with it...or there just wasn't anything they wanted for it. Because of his familiarity with many of the clubs and Gasthauses around BK, he had a number of German friends...one of whom, when he was told of the PFC's dilemma, offered a solution. Seems he had access to 5 five gallon cans of Battleship Gray, lead base, military grade paint. What he really wanted to have was ten mountain grade sleeping bags...maybe they could make a deal. The PFC had excess sleeping bags...but this was crossing a serious "Do not Cross This Line" line. Trading within the Army was a nod and a wink among the ruling class...it was a no no but a necessary no no so we look the other way in public and at the Officer's Club we brag about how good our supply guy is. But trading with a local national...that was blatant black market and no one would look the other way for that. After some soul searching and a few more beers, the PFC decided to make the swap...for the good of the unit. They agreed to meet at the back of the Fuel Truck Park, where it was dark and between guard posts...they would have to be quiet...Fritz (made up name) would bring the paint to the fence and they would pass bags for paint. It would take a day or two to get everything put together so the PFC said he would call Fritz when it was time.
The night of the exchange, the PFC went to the EM club for a shot to steady his nerves. After a couple of nerve treatments, he called his buddy to set things up. The phone rang, a strange voice answered, the PFC asked for Fritz...not here...okay. Back to the bar to steady the shaky hand and wait a few. Three more attempts to reach Fritz...three more returns to the bar with no contact. Shift your focus to the Wurzburg Miltary Police Station...the desk of the German Polizei Liaison officer, whose phone number is only one digit different from Fritz's. He looks over at his US GI counterpart and chuckles...some poor drunk keeps callling and asking for Fritz and gets scared and hangs up when he is told Fritz is not here. A little light goes on in the MP's eye...he suggest that if the drunk should call again, just be Fritz and see where it leads. The PFC was so relieved to finally get in touch with Fritz that he was not at all alarmed that Fritz didn't seem to recall all the details of the swap...the PFC had to go over the whole thing a couple of times to make sure every thing was understood. The PFC arrived at the back fence struggling to handle all the mountain bags...he whisper yelled as only a drunk can do...and the whole night lit up. MPs on both sides of the fence with bright lights...the PFC was dumbfounded and just sat down.
90 days in Mannheim stockade...reduction to Private...forfeiture of three months pay... a reputation as the worst supply sergeant in the history of the 14th Cav, and having a bad memory for phone numbers. In those days a fella could stick around after all that, if he wanted...in fact you could retire at the highest rank you had held for more that 2 years...so...be a private for two years...retire as a staff sergeant...it was an old wives tale that I had heard many times...don't know if it was true or not...when I met him, he was a 37 year old PFC with a year and a half to go. And that is what happened to his self esteem...he was just ridin' the storm out until he could retire.
He was always kinda weird...always kinda loaded...but it turns out that before he got into all that mess he had been on of my platoon sergeants best friends and that is why he was in our platoon...so the sgt could keep an eye on him and keep others off his back...they were both Korean War vets and all...and the PFC was always good to me...