FEMALE ON THE FLOOR! Forks in the Road

A few days ago, Mom chided me on referring to the troops I was surrounded by as “even less promising than me.” I really meant that statement, but I’ll explain a little better.

Though I can’t say how it is for all wars, I can only relay how it was for mine. I was locked down in my section except for those blessed times I had to ride across the bridge with SFC Grover (or whatever we named him) who totally creeped me out. Most of the people in my section at that time were on their way out. In fact, some were still there because of the invasion, so since their mission was different than mine plus the fact that they were entirely, well, unhappy, I was rarely around them. They went out on missions I know not of. After our day missions were complete, we spent the night in the section building. We never went back to the barracks except for a shower. No one was in the barracks except whoever was on duty there. We slept where we worked.

Did anyone miss that my mission was coffee? Now I ask you, what’s to be happy about?

I have been “non-traditional” my entire life. Either too young or too old. At least as far as military and education are concerned, so X out young on the prior sentence. But in the military, everyone my age and even those much younger, far outranked me. According to the Uniform Code of Military Justice, I was allowed to fraternize with E-4’s and below. I was E-4; SFC Grover was E-7. He knew better and I let him get by with it. Just wisecracks, nothing more. Anyone in the military knows that there are jerks within its ranks, just as there are within the general population. It happens.

I did get transferred out of the section for nine months until he retired. This was at my request shortly after the war. Yet still, throughout the nine months, he just seemed to become more enraged with my request for a transfer. It wasn’t about a desire for me; it was about getting even. He finally went too far when he shook his finger at me from across the table, his face turned as red as his hair. His head seemed to swell up, threatening the elastic that held his rape-proof glasses square across his beet nose, then he growled, “You’re mine and I’m getting you back! We’re getting a forklift this week and I hold the slot for you!” He did this in front of a bunch at the chow hall one day, including a couple that outranked him. Everyone got very quiet, and after that, he never bothered me. He avoided me. The hateful man retired from the military and is most likely impressing someone in the civilian sector today.

The part that may truly surprise you on this is that I transferred to DSU or Direct Support Unit as a forklift driver and as the Materiel and Storage Handling Specialist I had been trained to be. My new job would be to receive Class IX repair parts for the Heavy Equipment the 536th used. Some of the tires were as big as my den!

In S-4, ‘S’ meaning Staff, I would have worked in a cozy air conditioned office in Battalion Headquarters, supplying only that level with office supplies, etc., whereas in DSU, I worked in a hot warehouse and my only air came from those huge fans the DOD possesses. You know the ones I’m talking about. They too, are the size of my den. Do they still have those black pens that say U.S. Government on them?

We were locked down in our sections until sometime after January 3, 1990. That was the day Noriega was captured, and it was also my sister’s birthday.

Life in the barracks wasn’t too bad and Ft. Kobbe and Howard Air Force Base were a nice little place, though to really accomplish anything, we did have to go across the bridge.

Panama was beautiful so long as you looked at eye-level or up. It was a developing country whose people threw their trash around a lot on the beaches close to us. We had Ft. Kobbe Beach, and then there was also Vera Cruz Beach, which I always referred to as Very Crude Beach, because of the aluminum cans tossed about and the occasional diaper or two. But the bases were clean.

And over the years, I’ve come to appreciate their culture. But back then, I was fifteen minutes early, ASAP and Priority, and the Panamanians, who I had to deal with a great deal before it was over, they were always “mañana o lunes.”

I was Type A.

Is there a Type D?