I ain’t wanting to get out of the Army! Hell, my pappy, he’ll beat me like a hound that won’t point if I get kicked out of the Army.”
“But, Dubray, it appears from what’s written here and from what your leaders tell me, that you simply can’t adjust. Hell, you’ve been from rifleman to weapons platoon ammo bearer and back to rifleman again and haven’t performed adequately in any of these positions.”
“Yes, sir, I know. That’s surely the truth. But I try. I really do, sir. And I’ll try harder. It’s just—well, I don’t catch on quick like, you know, like the other fellows. I ain’t meaning to mess up all the time. It’s just that, shit, seems sometimes like I’m the only fellow what can take a silk purse and turn it to a sow’s ear.”
I had to smile at this colorful self-appraisal. Then, regaining my composure, I looked at him sternly and said what I’d pretty much decided the night before. “Okay, Private Dubray, I’m not gonna sign this. I’m gonna hold onto it for a month—thirty days—and see how you perform in a new, final job. If you do well, I’ll tear this thing up a month from now. If you continue to screw up, I’ll just redate it, and you’ll be on your merry way home. Fair?”
“Yes, sir!” he replied enthusiastically. “I’ll soldier my fucking ass… uh… my shorts off! Just wait and see!”
He paused and then innocently said, “Uh… ‘course, we don’t wear no shorts here in the boonies, ‘cause they rot so quick like. Cause jungle rot on your private parts, too. Mean, you just getting here and all, sir, you probably ain’t knowing that, huh?”
“Well, no, I didn’t, Dubray,” I replied, aware that I was losing control of our counseling session but unsure how it had happened.
Buoyantly, smiling broadly, he said, “Well, I’ll tell you, sir, I didn’t neither, and ‘bout a week what with being in the boonies, my nuts got ‘bout big as ripe crab apples—‘bout as red too. And burn and itch, whew! I tell you, sir, I was a feeling like one ’em hounds that wouldn’t point right, and Pappy, he not wanting him ‘round the house no more, took a corncob and rubbed his ass raw, then he took a good dab of turpentine and…”
“Uh… yes, Dubray, I get the picture. And I understand you’re gonna do the best you can to soldier your way back for us. Now let me talk to First Sergeant Sullivan about your new duties. In the meantime, you report back to Lieutenant MacCarty and tell him… well, just tell him to come and see me. And that’ll be all now, Dubray.”
He departed, and I went searching for my first sergeant. Upon finding him, I said, “It’s about Gomer Pyle, First Sergeant.”
“Who, sir?”
“Dubray, 2d Platoon’s chapter case.”
“Yes, sir. Mistake, and I told the young lieutenant as much. Willie’s only problem is he’s just a little bit slower on the uptake than the rest of us. But he wants to do right, and, by God, I’d rather have a dumb soldier who wants to soldier than a college draftee who doesn’t!”
“Glad to hear you say that, First Sergeant,” I replied. “He’s yours.”
“Ah, say what, sir?”
“I’m holding the chapter in abeyance for thirty days pending an evaluation of his performance in a new job. Sergeant Sullivan, please find Sweet Willie Dubray a new job.”
Sullivan looked at me suspiciously a moment, and then a glimmer of a smile formed. “Okay, sir. Think I might have just the job for him.”
Later that afternoon, sitting in my sandbagged CP on the bridge’s southern approach, occupied with a change-of-command inventory, I overheard the Bull conversing with our problem child just outside the bunker.
“Now listen, Willie, and listen closely. From now on you’re attached to company headquarters, and you have only one task to perform. That’s to make goddamn sure me and the old man always—and Willie, I mean always —have hot coffee. I don’t care if it’s night or day, sun or rain, moving or stationary, you make sure me and the old man have our coffee. Understand?”
“Yes, First Sergeant,” Dubray complaisantly replied.
“Now, Willie,” Sullivan continued, “that means you don’t have to worry ‘bout cutting charges, or aligning aiming stakes, or plotting fires, or anything else. All you gotta do is make sure me and the captain have our coffee.”
A somewhat unorthodox approach, but I guess it’s a start.
It was a good start! The Bull had found the key to Sweet Willie.
He wasn’t a bad or a dumb soldier, merely a young man who lacked the educational advantages enjoyed by most of us. A young man who had been given too many things to do too quickly and had lost confidence in himself. But he soon excelled in preparing hot instant Cration coffee under the most trying of conditions. Rain or shine, dark or light, on valley floor or in mountain’s tropical rain forest, Willie was always there with a canteen cup of coffee in his hand.
Of course, we weren’t serving in the British army and thus weren’t authorized a “batman” at taxpayers’ expense. So once Willie proved to us—and more importantly, to himself—that he could do one thing really well, the first sergeant had Blair and Anderson begin teaching him radio telephone procedures. Within a short time, Sweet Willie became a capable RTO. If his voice transmissions weren’t always procedurally perfect, they were always colorful!
But, as we soon learned, Sweet Willie’s real forte lay in the field of logistics. A couple weeks into his probationary month he approached me with a suggestion for resolving our uniform quandary. And, indeed, it was a problem. In the boonies, one did not have his own uniforms; our laundered jungle fatigues came to us weekly on the evening log bird. All sizes were intermingled, and it was every man for himself.
You might end up with size small faded trousers, and a brand-new extra-large jacket.
“See, sir,” Sweet Willie drawled, as we sat sharing a cup of his coffee, watching the sky darken, “this uniform thing’s pissing everybody off, and hell, I don’t see no reason for it. I mean, ain’t no reason for us to dive into a bundle of jungles like we be a bunch of porkers at swill time.”
“I know, Willie,” I responded. “And the problem is high on my list of priorities. However, there are… uh… other priorities. But if you have a suggestion, I’m all ears.”
He brightened. “Well, sir, I’ve been a doing a little figuring here, and what with I knowing ‘bout the size of every swinging dick… uh…
Richard in the company…” He grinned at what he had just said. “As you know, one time or ‘nother, I been assigned to most of it. Uh… anyway, way I figure it, you take the extras, you know, the extra smalls and extra large, and put ’em aside. I mean, fuck, ain’t that many of ’em anyway, and them what needs ’em, we can order special like of something. Then it’s kind of simple like. You just have the smalls, mediums, and larges.”
“Okay, Willie,” I said, not knowing what else to say. Because I had no earthly idea what he was talking about.
“Yes, sir, then you have trains break out the company uniform dump into four bundles. That there’s the three line platoons and one bundle what’s for us in headquarters and Four Six. In each of them bundles, they put the uniforms what fit the guys in that platoon. Like in Two Six, I figure we need six smalls, twelve mediums, and nine large.”
“Yeah, but Willie,” I interrupted him, “those sizes are changing constantly. I mean, we have soldiers rotating in and out of the company on nearly a daily basis.”
“Yes, sir, but that don’t matter none. Mean, we ‘port our foxhole strength for issue of charlie rats. Ain’t no reason can’t do the same for uniforms. Hell, it be even simpler, seeing we’d only be a doing it once a week ‘stead of everyday like we do the foxhole.”
“Okay,” I somewhat warily replied, still not comprehending the mechanics of his proposal.
Dubray, interpreting my “okay” as approval, handed me a dirty piece of notebook paper, at the top of which was scribbled “WEAKLY UNIFORM RPT.”
Then, with increased enthusiasm, he said, “See, sir. Can’t nothing be more simple. Just send this here uniform report in to trains each week, telling ’em the sizes what fit the guys in each platoon by line. Hell, I could handle it myself, sir. Just check with the platoon sergeants every week ‘fore the uniform dump.”
Unable to think of a single reason why his proposal wouldn’t work, I said, “Willie, you’re a goddamn genius! Do it! You’re in charge. Use my name freely.”
He did, and the following evening I got a call from my executive officer at company trains.
“Comanche Six, this is Comanche Five. We got some sort of request back here to break out uniforms by
