My career with the Army and consequently with the 472nd MP Co. came at the invitation of my Uncle Sam. It turned out to be a two-year love-hate relationship with the Army, most of it spent at Fort Wainwright, Alaska. The love was obviously only on their side as they refused to let me go home even though I asked the drill sergeant very politely for permission to do so. Wainwright is the Army's northernmost Fort. Yes, there are missile and radar sites more northern, but no other Forts. It is a former Army Air Base and lies adjacent to Fairbanks.
After going through military police training in July & August at Ft. Gordon, GA, where I was a member of C-10-4, I was sent home for leave and then told to report to Ft. Wainwright on Sept. 22, 1967. After having been acclimated to the high temperatures and excessive humidity of Georgia, I was unprepared for what awaited me in Alaska. The day we landed it was snowing. To make matters even worse, Fairbanks "International" Airport was not one of those places where the plane would taxi up to the terminal and a closed, heated walkway would extend out to the plane. Huh-uh! No Way! Nope, we had to walk across the snow covered tarmac to get to the terminal. The baggage off-loading was done by simply throwing the luggage through a flexible skirt that hung on the side of the terminal. Every time a piece of luggage came through, the cold draft came with it. Once again I cursed that drill sergeant who had remained stoic in the face of my pleas for mercy.
One of my earliest memories of the 472nd comes from when I had just arrived, been assigned to a cube, put my gear away, and then I wandered out to the day room. There to my great surprise I saw two men running around the pool table. One man was black, the other was white. They were so evenly spaced, it was hard to tell who was chasing whom. As they ran, they were yelling racial epithets at one another. Oh my gosh, I groaned to myself, if we're having racial problems in the MP company itself, what is it like out in the rest of the post? The men, who turned out to be MP Thaddeus B. Rachal and MP Boots, turned out to be the best of friends and were simply enjoying razzing one another. Both men were then gracious enough to welcome me and about 5 other new MPs and even took us to the post theater (well, we called it a theater but it wasn't much of one!) where we saw "To Sir, With Love". I still remember sitting beside Rachal and, when the racial comments were made in the movie, wondering if he was being offended. Both turned out to be really good men and good MPs. We rookies learned a lot from them. Boots, by the way, got his name from the fact (as I was told) that when he arrived as a rookie, he had purchased a pair of jump boots and had polished them to an extremely high shine. Apparently the boots resembled patent leather from sole to top, and so the old hands in the company nicknamed him 'Boots' and the name stuck. In real life, and on official military documents, he was actually Freddie Tompkins but few would have recognized him by that name.
On Easter of 1964, there had been a major earthquake in Alaska and this disrupted things severely. The troops were put into use in helping to get not only the post, but also Fairbanks back into shape. Then, in early 1967, there had been a major flood of the Chena River. Due to damage and such, during both events, the messhalls were shut down and the guys had to eat C-rations. Those of you who have eaten such things remember (besides the gourmet flavors!) the cheap plastic fork that came with them. Because of those forks, the guys would go into the shut-down messhall and steal a metal fork to use. Unfortunately, the Army kept expecting the guys to return the forks and so it never ordered any replacements. Naturally, none of the forks were ever returned. In 1967 when I arrived, there was still a severe fork shortage. People would try to arrange the time they got in the chow line so that they would either be up front to receive one of the few forks, or further back in line in hopes that the first people would have eaten, turned in their utensils, and the KPs would have washed them and put them out for the next person to use. As MPs, on-duty, we could walk to the front of the line, so it wasn't much of a problem for us. I recall one time, when four of us were sitting at a table, a GI from some other outfit came up and inquired of one MP, who looked nearly finished, if the GI could have his fork when finished? "Sure," said the MP, who then took one last bite, took a paper napkin, carefully wiped the fork as clean as possible, and then, just before handing it to the guy, put it in his left armpit and pulled it through. I think it was only the fact that there were four of us sitting there with .45s and batons which kept a fight from breaking out.
Shortly after arriving at Wainwright and still being 'shaky' as a rookie, my platoon was kindly given an opportunity to paint the interior walls of the bay. Per routine military decorating rules, the bottom was painted in a green color, and, starting about 4 feet up, the rest was painted in cream. We had finished the cream paint and were working on painting the green when my sergeant, SSG Griffith, came up behind me and said something to me. Per two months of basic and two months of MP school, I immediately straightened up and turned to face him. Unfortunately, I had a roller in my hand and it rolled right up out of the green and across the cream section. Personally I thought that it added that oh-so-necessary bit of randomness to the paint scheme but having achieved, despite my lowly status (or maybe due to that lowly status) a fairly good understanding of the antipathy of the military toward randomness, I mentally prepared myself for death, hoping my mother wouldn't take it too hard, when SSG Griffith simply said that I would really need to re-do that section. SSG Griffith was tops in my book from then on!
While still mostly a rookie myself, a new group of MPs arrived at the 472nd. Like rookies everywhere, they were shaky and nervous. As they were putting away their gear, one of the senior MPs, Jack Reed, came into the bay. From somewhere he had obtained a pair of full bird colonel's wings and was wearing them. He snapped the rookies to attention and proceeded to give them a sermon about how they were to conduct themselves and what he expected out of them. It was all the rest of us could do to keep from laughing.
Reed was famous for more than just that one incident. We would periodically have what were called CRIs, which means Combat Readiness Inspection. It was only necessary that we have our equipment available for inspection to ensure that it was ready to go should the Russians invade Fairbanks. There was no need to be formally dressed or anything like that. In fact, they said we could wear whatever we wanted. Therefore Reed dressed himself in combat boots, no pants, a pair of GI boxer shorts, and a shirt. To cap it off, he had acquired a fairly impressively large dildo, very realistically shaped, which he had arranged so that it hung down his leg and protruded out the bottom of the shorts. As the two sergeants inspected his gear, he would walk around them and place himself in such a position that the dildo was as close as possible to one or the other sergeant. To this day I do not know why they chose to neither say anything nor to do anything about it. I clearly remember the pain in my guts from holding back the laughter, however!
When Reed was down to about only 30 days left to serve, he grew even more relaxed in his attitude. At this time he was an SP4, E-4. While working at the Main Gate, he would lean against the gate, tip his helmet down over his eyes, and watch the cars as they would approach, slow down while waiting for his proper arm signal, and then finally come to a stop as he just stood there. Finally he would toss his head, indicating that they could come on post. One officer became riled enough to report him for this and Reed became a PFC E-3. Next, he was caught with a jug of wine out at the Gate!. Now he was a PVT E-2. I don't recall what last he did, but it seems that at the end of those 30 days he left us as a PVT E-1!
If one was unlucky enough to arrive at the 472nd as a rookie during those months of the year when the snow had drifted up on the side of the barracks, one received an initiation to the company which was quite chilling, to say the least. In the evening, after the First Sergeant and the officers had left, the rookie would be stripped down to his underwear and tossed out the window into the snowdrift. He would then have to run around the building and come in the front door. I was thankful I got there when the snow had just started to fall and had not yet accumulated to the necessary depth to allow a person to be thrown safely into it.
Another pleasurable experience awaited any rookie unlucky enough to arrive at the 472nd when he was already 21 years old. A group of caring and welcoming senior MPs would cordially invite the rookie out on the town. The first stop for the bus was, during my time, in front of the Billikin Bar, and thusly this event most often occurred in that establishment. Finding a table, one of the group would propose a round of vodka to toast the rookie's arrival. Usually the rookie would go along with this but if he were to request some other drink he would be persuaded by the argument that it was tradition. One person would leave and purchase the drinks. Returning to the table, a drink would be given to the rookie and then the others would each take a glass. After a most dignified and solemn welcoming toast, each would tip the glass back and pour the whole drink down his throat. Not wishing to appear less macho, the rookie would do the same but quickly realize that it was the strongest vodka he had ever tasted. Naturally, his drink, and his alone, had been made with Everclear! Welcome to Alaska, rookie!! Every winter a war is fought in Alaska to remain warm. The bitter cold of the region was known as the 'Hawk' and this war was referred to as the 'Battle of the Hawk'. Due to arriving in Sept. of 1967 and not leaving until May of 1969, I had the privilege of fighting the Hawk two times. I was wounded during these battles and, to this day, regard frozen white stuff as an abomination.
While at Wainwright, the Army, in it's famed magnanimity, allowed me to participate in a three day,two night exercise called cold weather training. We were graciously given the opportunity to sleep outside, in January, without fires or heaters, during this period. We apparently became the best trained troops in quite a while because the temperature dropped to a record minus 72 degrees during this little camping trip. Due to the intense cold, the vehicles had to be kept running all night in order to prevent them from freezing up. Now this was a fairly unskilled task that I am confident any officer or non-com could have easily done, however, they elected to have the troops do the job. The mistake in this is seen in the fact that one poor guy, thinking he was dealing with gasoline, actually put diesel in one of the jeeps. Jeeps don't work well with diesel and eventually this one sputtered to a noisy death. Upon determining the cause, the powers-that-were decided to allow the poor slob who made the mistake the opportunity to crawl under the jeep, drain the tank and lines, and get it running again. This isn't particularly fun in a heated shop; imagine doing it in 60 below temperatures, on your back, in the snow, dressed in bulky parka and mickey mouse boots!
Speaking of the boots, the real name was vapor barrier boots. They consisted of an inner boot fastened to an outer boot in such a manner that by blowing on a valve on the outside of the boot, one could inflate the area between the two boots. This provided a vapor barrier that tended to insulate one's feet from the cold outer boot. The fun part about them was that such an arrangement meant that walking in them was similar to walking on a trampoline. You kind of 'bounced' your way along. Sometimes the cadre would decide that rather than catching rides down to the Provost Marshal's Office, or straggling down in groups of 2 or three, they would have us march as a Proper Military Unit. If this was done during the time of year for vapor barrier boots, it always failed as the guys would exaggerate the bounce of the boots and our march degenerated into something resembling one of the more intense nightmares of a drill sergeant. Rarely did the decision to march last more than one day!
One of the fun things we were able to do at Wainwright was to harass the guards at the Post Commissary. Men from different units were given the assignment to stand guard at night at the Commissary. During the summer, this was OK, not fun, but OK. However, during the winter, it got dang cold standing or walking outside, so the guards, during the wee hours of the morning, would climb down into an access compartment that was heated and had a metal door that closed. This door was strong enough to withstand the weight of a patrol car. I know this because we used to drive quietly up, park one wheel on the door, and then honk for the guard. If he was topside, all was well; but if he was in the compartment, then he panicked, not knowing if it was the sergeant of the guard who was looking for him.
Like any police department, one of our common calls was for the domestic violence call. One time I had just entered the parking lot at the PMO when I was dispatched to a DV at the married enlisted quarters. Another unit, myself, and SFC Reyes arrived simultaneously. As per protocol, we met on the far side of our vehicles away from the call location to discuss who was going to go where. While settling this matter, the largest human being I have ever seen in my life came walking out of the aforementioned unit. We all three loosened our .45s, even SFC Reyes who was a high-ranking black belt in the martial arts. Fortunately the man was calm and rational and he told us what was going on. It seems that that day had been payday and the man had cashed his check, come home, and given his wife ALMOST all the money. He had only kept a few dollars with which to have a beer or two at the NCO Club. The fight was over the fact that she was insisting on those few dollars also! I can still remember seeing, inside the apartment, a young girl of about 14 who was extremely embarrassed about her folks fighting and the MPs coming. She sat staring at a TV and refused to even acknowledge our presence.
The ladies played a big role in a lot of our incidents. I remember one time a unit being dispatched to a vehicle with a woman sleeping in it parked in front of one of the messhalls. It was early morning and men were being dropped off by their wives and this vehicle was right in the way. I believe it was SGT Apisa who was there who tapped on the window but the woman would not wake up. He tapped harder but still no movement. Finally, he pulled her door open. Out tumbled the woman to the ground, drunk as a skunk, and entirely nude from the waist down. Naturally this created quite a stir and SGT Apisa had his hands full (metaphorically) as he tried to cover her and get her to wake up!
Another pair of ladies who were famous at the time were TMP Betsy and Rowboat Rosie. Betsy got her name from the fact that she had once been caught flagrante delicto with a GI in the Transportation Motor Pool. Rosie got her name from a similar incident when she was caught improving the morale of a GI in the general's pleasure boat. These two young ladies were constantly turning up in different places. I once caught Rosie in an ambulance behind Bassett Army Hospital once again entertaining the troops.
One time I was assigned to Gate #2 which those who have been there will remember was isolated from any other sign of civilization and had about a quarter mile or so of straight road stretching past it. This was in the very early hours of the morning and the snow was softly falling with almost no wind. Standing outside getting some fresh air, I thought I heard someone calling. Listening closer, I could tell that someone, apparently a woman, was crying, "Help me. Save me." I stepped out into the middle of the road and looked down the road, off post. Dimly I could see, coming towards me, a figure. As the figure got closer, I realized to my 19 year old eyes that it was an attractive young Eskimo woman, and she was dressed only in a robe which she had failed to fasten around her and, in fact, which billowed behind her as she ran toward me. She kept calling out, "He's after me. Help me!", but I could see no one pursuing her. Admittedly, due to the extremely revealing aspect of her clothes, I was having difficulty keeping my eyes focused down the road. As she reached me, she threw her arms around me and screamed in my ear that 'he' was after her. I backed up towards the gatehouse; she remained attached to me. As I reached the gatehouse, I saw a figure coming toward me from off post. He was a man. A big man, and he had apparently dressed in haste also as his boots were untied and his coat was not fastened. With each step he took I could feel the ground shake. Thrusting the woman behind me, I called out in my most quavering teen-age voice, "halt", but he didn't stop. Gathering my breath, I yelled, "Halt!", but he kept coming. Drawing my .45, locking and loading a round, I pointed it at him and yelled "HALT!" again. This time my voice apparently found the right note because he came to a sudden stop. He then began yelling at her, while she yelled at me, and while I reached with my free hand for the phone. Naturally, at this point, every vehicle on post decided to exit through Gate 2 so I found myself also trying to wave the curious people past. Finally a unit got there and we sorted things out. Seems he had picked her up at a bar, they had a financial discussion and came to agreement, and then went to his place to fulfill the contract. For some reason she suddenly took offense to the situation and took off, wearing only his robe. We got Fairbanks PD to come out and take them off our hands.
Gate 2 had another memory for me. The gate had no bathroom but, because it was relatively isolated and no one could see you, the MPs would step out behind the gate house and relieve themselves. In the summertime this would soak into the ground, but during winter, it accumulated into a huge yellow mound of ice. People would fight, bribe, and plead not to be assigned to Gate 2 in the spring when things were melting!.
Once SFC Reyes and I were standing in the PMO when we got a call from Gate 1 that two GIs, who had been dropped off for protective custody, had gotten out of line and were fighting with the two MPs. We jumped into my car and rushed out there. When we arrived we saw a long line of vehicles sitting while their occupants enjoyed the scene, Russo (I think) wrestling with one guy, and Howard Hoene standing, like an oak tree, holding this guy from behind in a bear hug. The man was kicking and screaming but there was no way he could get out of that hold.
Another time, on Hoene's birthday, a group of us took him out celebrating. We ended up at this joint just outside of Fairbanks where the ladies, suffering from the heat perhaps, would shed their clothes. One of the guys in our group talked this one stripper into giving Hoene the 'treatment' as it was his birthday. She finished her act and then came off stage, started messing around with Howard, sat on his laps, nibbled his ear, etc. Howard sat there, his normal immobile self, not a sign of emotion on his face. The stripper put her all into getting a reaction out of Howard. Nothing. I sat there laughing at this guy was not taking advantage of an excellent situation when I finally realized that if he had reacted, she would not have stayed on him so long! I guess Howard was a lot smarter than the rest of us!
There was a large tunnel system which connected most of the main parts of the post; Headquarters, bank, PMO, Officer's Club (naturally), BOQ, the General's Quarters (again, naturally), and such. Many people used them to move from place to place during the winter because the tunnels were heated in order to keep the water pipes and such in them warm. One time some units of (I believe) the 171st Inf. came back to the post from maneuvers and the company grade officers decided to have a party in the basement of the O Club. Well, young officers, beer, and a few left over smoke grenades combined to produce an awesome pink cloud that drifted through the tunnel system, from the O Club, to all the other sites. Unfortunately for the officers, the closest site to the Club was the General's Quarters (I'm sure that wasn't an accident!). Needless to say, the general got a bit perturbed to see this colored cloud drifting up into his home. This resulted in MPs with protective masks running hither and yon until the source of the cloud was identified. A group of the officers was brought to the PMO where they were enjoying themselves, laughing at we mere enlisted mortals, and failing to cooperate. That ended very shortly after LTC Ginda arrived and pointed out to them their relative insignificance as compared to the general's anger.
One day, while driving to the barracks in a patrol car, I noticed LTC Ginda walking in the same direction. Being an MP and therefore no fool, I offered the colonel a ride which he accepted. Just as we approached Headquarters, we observed a vehicle going the wrong way on a one-way street. Now, I was hungry, and I recognized the vehicle as belonging to a captain who was convinced that enlisted men, particularly MPs, were put on this earth in order for him to make them miserable. Therefore, I didn't particularly want to deal with this jerk, but when one has the PM in their vehicle, it is considered wise to do one's job! Dejectedly, I pulled the captain over and started to get out. The colonel stopped me and said, "Let me deal with this,". I watched as he approached the car where the captain was sitting slumped back, waiting to give me a hard time. It was with the utmost pleasure I saw him come to nearly true vertical attention while still inside his car. Yes, Virginia, sometimes there is justice in this world!
One other day, I was out on the far side of the Chena River, where the troops would practice war games and such. I was all by myself and there was very little chance of anyone else being around, so I decided I would put my patrol car ('63 Dodge, slant six engine, three speed on the column) through it's paces. Of course, if someone were to see me driving fast, they might question it unless I had my overhead on, so I turned on the cherry light and took off. Whee!! What fun! I was eating up that gravel road and enjoying every second of it (Hey, I was 20 years old, drafted, it wasn't my car and I didn't have to pay for gas or repairs!) Coming to a very sharp corner, I slowed down and went around it. Just as I started to get on it again, I saw coming toward me another MP vehicle. Naturally I slowed and we stopped adjacent to one another. With my luck, it turned out to be the patrol supervisor, SGT Mike Apisa. Fortunately, he couldn't see around the corner to where the massive cloud of dust was still hanging. "How's it going, Rick," he asked? "Pretty good, Sarge, no crimes being committed around here!" "Well, may I ask why you have the overhead light on?" "Oh, is that still on? Back down the road a way I saw a moose and turned the light on in order to 'hypnotize' it so I could get closer. Guess I forgot to turn it off!" SGT Apisa was new to Alaska and had not yet seen his first moose, so he got excited about it, asked for specifics on where it was, and took off to see it. Meanwhile I wandered away, grateful for the goddess of enlisted men who had obviously been watching over me.
I had another experience with SGT Apisa. There was a nuclear storage area on the post, which was guarded by it's own group of MPs. If an alarm sounded there, that group of MPs were to maintain interior security while the 472nd had the responsibility of responding, lights and siren, and providing exterior security. One day, while on patrol, word came out that the alarm was sounding there. I hit the light and siren, stomped on it, and was flying towards the storage area when I saw another MP unit, running code, coming at me. As it passed, I saw it was SGT Apisa, going the wrong way! After he passed me, he did a U-turn and followed me in to the site. Not being a non-com, I only teased him a little bit about that afterwards.
I didn't do very much actual patrol work because they discovered that I knew how to type and I got drafted to be the desk clerk working with the desk sergeant. This wasn't all bad as it was a lot better sitting in a heated office in January than outside patrolling in 40 below weather.
One of the duties of a desk clerk was, if the Post Finance alarm sounded, to grab the shotgun from the wall of the office, dash into our tunnel entrance and run over to where the entrance from the Headquarters building was at. The theory was that I would be closing off that avenue of escape for anyone who might have robbed the Finance Office. Well, as I was getting short on time, I was training my replacement and the alarm sounded. Yelling at him to, "Follow me!", I got the shotgun and we ran down the stairs into the tunnel. To reach the HQs entrance, we had to run up one section of tunnel, turn left, run up another fairly lengthy section of tunnel, turn left again, and run down to the desired entrance. Along the way, of course, were entrances from other places such as the bank, transportatin motor pool, etc. When I arrived at the HQs entrance and stationed myself, I discovered I had no rookie with me! Not being able to leave my post until cleared, I had to wait there. Finally I was released and I trudged back down the tunnel to the PMO. As I passed a side tunnel going to the motor pool, I saw my rookie, standing feet spread and with his .45 pointed at three very nervous, very pale GIs who had been haplessly walking from the motor pool over to the snack bar. Naturally, to save face in front of non-MPs, I told him he had done a good job and he could release the three men. After they left I pointed out to him that people who robbed the Finance Office were unlikely to be coming from the direction of the motor pool.
One of the interesting things about working the desk was that I got to work with SGT (later SSG) William I. Snodgrass. This man had the habit of, when it was quiet, reading paperback westerns and smoking cigarettes. He had the amazing ability to smoke a cigarette down to the end, without taking it out of his mouth, and without removing the ash! I would sit there fascinated, waiting for the ash to break off and drop onto his freshly starched uniform! I never saw it happen!
Does anyone remember stopping for a Coke, while on duty, at the Service Club? Do you remember how the troops would all growl softly under their breath but those tables immediately beside you would be quiet and there would be this innocent look on the faces of the troops? Remember how that small zone of silence would move with you as you crossed through the area? What a blast! Very hard to keep a straight face!
Another thing I remember from Alaska is the pleasure of raising or lowering the flag. Sometimes, in the morning, when our little group would march out to the flagpole, it would be discovered that some fun-loving GI had decided to sneak out there during the night, tie the rope tightly, and then pour water over it until there was a huge ball of ice. Frantically the guys would take out their batons, beat on the ice, trying to release the rope and raise the flag on time. The music for the raising and lowering of the flag was played by record (for you younger people that was a flat, circular piece of plastic with grooves in which the music was recorded in a series of valleys, and hills.) With an ice-fog in the area, one could not see that the squad was having trouble getting the rope free, so the music would be played on schedule. This added to the urgency of the squad to get the rope free in time. Undoubtedly, it also added to the pleasure of the practical jokers too.
I suppose I should take the opportunity here to apologize to a large number of MPs who served there at that time. Part of my duties as desk clerk (or, as we called it, delta charlie) was to make coffee for the troops. This was done in a huge machine that made, as I remember, about 30 cups at a time. I didn't drink coffee and I HATED having to make it. So somedays I would put in only a partial scoop of grounds, and others times I would put in multiple times as much as I was supposed to! Amazingly, I never got a single complaint about the coffee. I guess that after coming in from the cold they were just seeking the heat of the brew and could have cared less about the taste.
Christmas Day, 1967, a friend, Mike Russo, and I were hanging around the day room, shooting pool, feeling sorry for ourselves, and all that sort of thing. The CQ contacted us and said that a citizen had called and wanted to invite a couple GIs home for Christmas Dinner. Did we want to go? Did we! Why, quick as a flash we were into our Class A uniforms and out the door to the USO where we had agreed to meet the gentleman. At the USO, a rather distinguished gentleman came walking in and asked for us. After introductions, and our thanks for the invitation, we left the USO to go to his car. As Alaskan veterans know, during the winter, one plugged their car's block heater into the electrical outlet mounted with the parking meter. This man's car was a fairly new Cadillac and, of course, was plugged in. As an MP, and therefore a well-mannered and courteous person, I offered to unplug the cord and wrap it up. Meanwhile he and Mike got into the car. While wrapping the cord up, I saw that on the man's bumper was a Fort Wainwright post registration sticker that had, in blue characters, R2 (maybe it was R002 or some such thing). Now R meant that the man was retired. Blue meant that he had been a commissioned officer, and a low number such as 2 indicated that most likely he had been a general grade officer, probably 3 or 4 stars. This puckered up my tight little rookie hindquarters and I frantically tried to think of a way to let Mike know that we were in the presence of greatness. Unfortunately, I was so rattled that nothing came to mind. During the dinner, we were asked the inevitable question of how we liked the Army. Mike, being a truthful sort, explained how things weren't too bad but could have been better if Army leadership, specifically the officers, would realize that many enlisted persons were actually intelligent human beings. (By the way, for the sake of the record, I swear that Mike was not referring to LTC Ginda, CPT Petenbrink, or 1LT Wright!!) After melting into my seat, I interrupted Mike and made some comment to our host about his Army experience, thusly finally giving Mike a bit of a warning. The gentleman (I think his name was Professor Partridge from the University of Alaska) explained that he had served during WWII, been wounded, and medically retired as a 2LT. What!? A second looie? Well, why then the incredibly low number on the Cadillac's tag? He had no idea why, nor did he even realize there was any significance to the number. It seems that his very lovely daughter had gone onto post in order to get the sticker. AHA!!! Beautiful young woman (she was at dinner with us), MP's far from home. Oh yes, then it became obvious what had happened. Trying to make time with the lady, they had given her the low number deliberately! Mike and I explained what the low number meant and the professor then said that he finally understood why he would always receive such crisp salutes when driving on post. He had always thought it was simply a matter of superb military morale and training!
MP Jeeps were more than just transportation. In the winter, when on convoy escort, or doing something that meant we had to eat C-rations, we would unplug the flexible hose running between the engine and the heater. This hose was just the right size to introduce a can of C-rations. We would insert the cans, connect the hose back to the heater, and merrily go on our way. Come meal time, voila! Hot meal!
Another memory involving jeeps is when I was assigned as the on-call emergency driver for a jeep with a 4x4 trailer loaded with supplies. The theory was that in the case of some super crisis, the CO would, along with other COs of other units, respond to a central planning point for briefing. The jeep and driver were to be prepared to go at a moment's notice. Because of the information leaks of the military, we knew ahead of time about when they would have a drill, so we had the jeep, with trailer, parked in the motor pool where it would be nice and warm, and waited for the call. Finally it came and I raced out to the motor pool, grabbed the jeep, tore back to the barracks, picked up CPT Petenbrink, and we took off for the assembly point. When we reached there, he went in with the other brass and I stayed outside with the other lower life forms. While standing there I noticed oil coming from my jeep engine. Opening the hood I saw that I did not have a valve cover on the engine! Naturally, we had to call in for another jeep and that one had to be towed in. The brass at the motor pool tried to get CPT Petenbrink to give me an Article 15 for failure to perform first echelon maintenance on the vehicle prior to taking it but he basically told them where to shove it and that it had been the responsibility of the motor pool to have it ready to go at a moment's notice. The whole matter sorted of faded away when the motor pool realized that they were potentially on the wrong end of the Article 15 situation.
One time the Top Sergeant came into the dayroom where I was idling away some of the vast amounts of leisure time which we were given, and asked me if I was interested in going to a school. It seems that someone in the upper reaches of the military had decided that every outfit should have at least one person trained in some kind of radio skill and had issued an edict to make it happen. Top said it would probably be about a week and would be at Ft. Richardson which was located in the banana belt down by Anchorage. Well, we were extremely short-handed at that time and were working 12 hours on and 12 hours off, seven days a week. It was winter and darn cold. Sure, I was glad to go to Richardson for a week, take classes for eight hours a day, and warm up. Who cared what the class was about? I was an MP and therefore there was no question that I could handle the class. (Life experiences have since toned my ego down considerably!) Well, he submitted my name and a while later my orders came in. Turned out it was for six weeks! This meant that I was going to have to miss out on a major section of winter in Fairbanks. Sure, I was disappointed, but, orders were orders, so I packed my bag, tried to keep my grin from showing, and left for Richardson. The class turned out to be learning the Morse Code. The military method for doing this was simple: Put each trainee in a stall, give him a pad of paper, a pencil, a set of headphones, and a telegraph key. Now play some Morse at him and make him write it down. Then make him send those same letters. Now add more letters and numbers. Now speed it up. Keep doing this until at least 20% of the class have expired. Fortunately, even the trainers realized how difficult this was, so the class only lasted for six hours a day. Naturally I tried to bear up under the disappointment of such short days!
While at Ft. Richardson, I was lodged in the transient barracks. There were men from all sorts of different units there and, due to the fact that in Alaska everyone wore an ascot whose color denoted the branch in which he served, it was easy to see who was from infantry, or armor, or medics, etc. MPs wore a kelly green ascot. Naturally, I wore mine and thought nothing of it. In the evenings, as we lounged around our area, the Charge of Quarters (CQ) would come through and pick men for details such as sweeping, mopping, emptying trash, etc. I was never picked, even though everyone else would be taken. I finally realized that, because the Richardson MPs were also barracked in that same building, the CQ thought I was a member of the permanent station and didn't want to cause himself a possible problem by making an MP do details. I always meant to tell him that it was OK to use me but I kept forgetting.
One morning while at Richardson, I was late in catching the bus to class. I ran outside and ran across the parking lot to where I could see the bus. Unfortunately a bird colonel was walking through the lot and I ran past him without stopping to salute him. After all, what was more important: That I fulfill my assigned mission of getting to class, or that I soothe this colonel's ego? Well, the colonel and I disagreed about the relative importance and he ordered me back to him. He braced me at attention and then gave me a tongue-lashing. He was infuriated about the lax military courtesy of the MPs on post and this was the last straw! He intended to do something about it and it was his intention to talk to the MP company commander that very day! Finally he released me and I loped away to class without ever telling him that I was not a member of that company. So, here, and now, I apologize to all members of the Richardson MP company for whatever travails they were put through.
Here's another memory: Short-timer's pins and the official short-timer's stick! Remember how you tried to wear the pin everywhere and the sergeants would try to keep you from wearing it? That was always fun. And the stick, I wonder who ever ended up with the one which had my name on it? That would make a great souvenir today!
One incident, although related to Ft. Wainwright, actually happened to me at Ft. MacArthur, in San Pedro, California. I had been discharged about 2 years previously and had been called up for reserve duty at Ft. MacArthur. When I arrived, I reported, per orders, to the Provost Sergeant. It turned out that he was in a meeting, so I sat in the outer office talking to the clerk, an E-2. He told me that they had just received a new Provost Sergeant, who had just been returned from Vietnam, and he was a real pain in the rear. Nothing pleased this guy and he was making them change the way they did everything! Internally I groaned because I had been looking forward to my 2 weeks in Southern California and it was disappointing to learn that I was going to have to work for such a jerk. Finally the meeting ended and the people came out. The clerk said, "Sergeant, this man is reporting in for reserve duty." The Provost Sergeant looked at me, I looked at him, and I said, "Sergeant Huffman!!", while he cried out, "Rick!". Yep, it was Sergeant Bob Huffman from the 472nd. While he and I shook hands and exclaimed how delighted we were to see one another, I could see the clerk trying to melt away into the background! Huffman took me down to the desk, introduced me to the personnel on duty, and told them that, as they knew, he was changing things to the way that things had been done in Alaska. Because I had been a delta charlie in Alaska, I knew exactly how he wanted things done and they were to listen to me! I spent a great time showing these guys how to do things and a week later, Huffman came to me and told me to take the last week off and "clear post!". I spent a week enjoying California, all at Uncle Sam's expense! I even had a chance to look up Bob Gonzales from third platoon and he, his wife, and I saw the premier of 'MASH'.
Does anybody remember chasing a moose off of the runway? Personally I thought that this was one of those tasks where it would be a great opportunity for an officer to demonstrate his command voice. Unfortunately, the closest I ever saw an officer get to this was giving the command to some MP to "Clear the runway!" So, the hapless MP would drive out to where the moose was and see what could be done. If he was lucky, the moose would allow itself to be herded off by means of the car. Sometimes, using the siren would do the job. Unfortunately, those were the good times. The bad times were when the moose would ignore the car. Then the MP would get out, flap his arms, and yell at the moose. Sometimes the moose would listen to this, grow bored, and wander off, but other times the moose would seem to take it as a primal challenge to see who would be scared first. He would lower his head and start coming towards you. Inevitably, you would backup, and, if it seemed wise, get into the car, prepared to exit the immediate path of the moose. In the meanwhile the spectators were watching safely from the sidelines, enjoying the show immensely. I'm certain I could hear them cheering for the moose, encouraging it to be successful.
There were times when a non-com or officer would do something that would irritate the heck out of a guy and you would want to switch over to a non-verbal form of communication. This, of course, was frowned upon by the military, officers, and non-coms. I, however, have the distinction of being one of the few MPs who ever assaulted an officer, before witnesses, and got away with it. And, to make it more sweet, it was a two-star general! The way it came about was that I was on duty as the delta charlie, working with SGT Snodgrass. We had been forewarned that the major general was going to be doing an inspection and he would be sure to check out the desk area. Furthermore, we were, naturally, to stand at attention while he and the accompanying officers were there. However, if a radio call came in, or the phone rang, then that should be handled immediately. If it were a radio call, the call and response would be logged immediately, after which the person handling the call (Let's see, a desk sergeant and a desk clerk. Hmmmm, wonder who will have to handle the call???) would resume the position of attention. Well, sure enough, the general and his party, including the general's aide, came in to check out the MP desk. SGT Snodgrass and I stood at attention and answered questions as they were asked. Then a radio call came in. As I remember, it went something like: "Provo, 3-1, I'm 10-11, 10-15 Post One." I immediately sat down in my roller chair, pulled myself up to the radio, acknowledged the call, and then typed it into the radio log. Unbeknownst to me, the general, apparently intrigued by the 10 code, came quietly up behind me to see what I was typing. As soon as I finished logging the call, I forcefully pushed my chair back and simultaneously began to rise out of it. But I felt a thump, a very solid thump, as my chair hit something and rose up. Looking over my shoulder, I discovered I was only inches from the face of a two-star general who had a decidedly pained expression on his face. Looking down, I saw the rear wheel of my chair resting squarely on the toe of his shoe. Off to the side I heard a strangled cry as the aide went into apoplexy. Thinking quickly and clearly, as all MPs are trained to do, I hurriedly pulled the chair off his foot and said, "Sorry, Sir!", while mentally telling myself that even if I was discharged as an E-1, so what, I would still be a civilian. But once again luck was with me and I had managed to assault a general who was not only an officer but also a gentleman. He told me not to worry about it and that he should not have come up behind me so quietly! I know, this sounds like a fairy tale, but I swear by my brass with the Harper's Ferry crossed pistols (and yes, thirty years later I still have them) that this story is true.
In 1969, as I was drawing close to my long-awaited discharge date, MP John Sullivan, who was scheduled to leave the same day as I, and I went to Fairbanks to celebrate our departure in the time-honored military manner. John had spent most of his time on Town Patrol and had made many friends in the various bars of the city. In this one establishment, while sitting at the bar we noticed a bottle of pink peppermint schnapps. It turned out that neither of us had ever drank that so we decided we would have some. The bartender, John's friend, told us that most people usually drank it in a straight shot and then followed it up with a water chaser. OK, that was fine with us, so we ordered two shots. Upon tasting it, we commented to one another that it tasted like candy and that we could drink a ton of the stuff with no ill effects. We immediately put our thoughts into action and began ordering first straight shots, then double shots and pouring them down. Surely even the most naive reader knows where this is going! Yep, we got bombed out of our minds. Now, to set the scene for the rest of this story, let me explain that the Chena River flows through Fairbanks and this river, naturally, freezes over during the winter. There was a lottery held each year as to the date and time when the official ice breakup occurred. In order to have an official determination of this exact moment, a device was placed on the river, visible from a bridge and from shore, that, as I recall, would make note of the time when it tipped so far from level. People, with money riding on this, would come out and check out the site, hoping to see indication that the breakup would occur when they had bet it would. Well, having eaten nothing but some hash browns and gravy, and having drank quite a bit, most of it peppermint schnapps, I became 'slightly' nauseus and found myself down on the river ice, forcefully emptying my stomach of all it's contents, all over the meter. I am sure this must have made a lovely sight for the locals the next day! Personally, I am most grateful for the angel that enabled me to walk on that ice and not fall through at that time of year. They say that angels watch out for drunks and fools so I must have been given double-coverage.
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