Flashback on Grace

Even the heartless army had grace. The word grace means unmerited favor, at least in religious realms. I experienced it just one time in my military life.

We supposedly had a 24 hour grace period at the end of our leaves. I never tested that. My dad was strict regarding my thoughts of coming home. I still remember the first time he meticulously checked my leave papers. He laid down the rule, “Don’t come home without proper leave papers! Always return to your unit on time.”

I got the point that he would disown me for being AWOL…absent without leave. He knew that I would have homesick days. He kindly stated, “I will personally take you to the military police.” Yes, those were his exact words! He believed in honoring commitments.

My friend Christopher Smith and I went home at the same time. He lived in Pennsylvania and I lived in Maine. We split somewhere in Ohio to complete our personal journies. I was surprised when we landed back at our barracks at the same time.

Smith aka DZ asked me, “Did you sign in?” I replied to the negatative. Being my big brother he barked, “Get your butt down to charge of quarters!”

I got off my lazy butt and headed down the stairs to the CQ. However, I had this moment of brilliance. I asked the CQ, “Do I have a grace day?” He quipped that I had to sign in before midnight tomorrow on this set of leave papers.

DZ never gave it a thought to ask of my progress, when I returned to bunk out for the night. The travel made us both weary. We both slept pretty soundly.

Our assistant platoon sargeant graciously greeted us the following morning with, “Get to hell out of the bunk troops…leave is over.” I snapped off my bunk.

DZ calmly remained in his prone position. Sarge said, “I am not repeating myself Smith.” DZ replied, “I got grace.” Sarge asked, “Did you sign in last night?” DZ said, “Yes.” (He probably should have said, ‘Yes, Sargeant.’) Sarge said, “Leave is officially over when you sign in. No grace Smith. Get your ass out of bed!”

By then DZ knew he was had. I stiffened as Sarge glanced back at me. He barked, “Did you sign in Thompson?” I responded, “No Sargeant.” He advised me to make myself scarce. I knew how to do that with great proficiency.

Showered and spiffy in my civilian clothes, I exited the barracks. I peeked into the kitchen window and spied my buddy DZ. Apparently Sarge found something for DZ to do, on his first day back.

I dutifully drew close to the window to ask DZ how it was going. He narrowed his eyes to say, “If you don’t get out of my face, I will beat your ass.” I smiled and replied, “Grace.”

Currahees…I had a fabulous day goofing off. I didn’t sign in until about 2100 hours. Had time to see DZ as he recovered from all those pots and pans. However, I didn’t push my luck that night. We learned a practical lesson about the fine points of grace that day.

Does the Uniform Make the Soldier?

The men looked sharp for inspection. My father served as a drill instructor at Ft. Benning. Unlike other career soldiers, he didn’t take it home to his children. We saw another side of him at home. But this day was all army.

The men fell out and entered the barracks. My dad let me hang out with the trainees. It was then that I heard one trainee’s profound statement, “You only think you know the army…until you wear the uniform.”

Years later I was issued my own set of fatigues. On my first full day I was assigned to kitchen police aka KP. We were awakened before the other men. Upon arrival I was given my very first military assignment…directly behind the kitchen. The E5 wore a crisp white uniform. He pointed at some large garbage cans and curtly ordered, “Clean them.”

I didn’t join the army to clean a bunch of garbage cans. These cans were literally covered with raw garbage. Stunned, I just nodded my head in assent.

The sargeant dissappeared. It was just me and those garbage cans on a dark lonely morning. I was paralyzed with fear. I stood there looking at the daunting task.

Well before sunrise, the Sarge returned. My body remained in the exact position as when he left me…the cans also took up their original repose. It was a technical standoff.

Sarge barked, “Did I not make myself perfectly clear?” I nodded in assent. “Do you think you can disobey an order soldier?” I nodded to the negative. My eyes betrayed my best military stance, as the tears began to silently flow.

He inquired briskly, “How old are you troop?” I responded, “Seventeen sargeant, I just turned seventeen. I don’t know how to clean a garbage can. But, I am sure that I could Sargeant.”

Sarge assured me that he had given me the best detail on KP. He grabbed a can and a power sprayer to wet the can. He filled a small pail with soapy water and loosened the contents of the first can, with that mighty brush. He finally blasted the can with a good rinse. It shined inside and out…squeaky clean. Turning, he asked, “Can you handle that private?” I quickly assured him that I could do that. Sarge disappeared again.

That power hose could make mince meat out of that garbage. I started knocking them out, one can at a time. They all shined, just like the one the sargeant showed me. This job was easy.

My father was deployed almost all of my early teen years. There were lots of father-son things that I missed in being a military dependent. But I didn’t want to be returned home by failing to adjust to military standards. I had to grow up at warp speed to wear the uniform.

By the time Sarge returned, every last can was spotless. He looked at them with a glimmer of pride, as I stood tall before him. After his nod I asked, “What would you like me to do now Sargeant?”
He replied, “Follow me.”

He led me to the serving line and told the trainees, “Give him all the chow he wants to eat.” He then pointed at the table where I would chow down. It was one one the best plates I ever ate in this man’s army.

Just before I finished eating, Sarge returned. He said, “Your KP is finished. If anyone asks you, tell them that I said to take the day off. You did a good job soldier. If they question that, have them call me.”

I was already finished work as the sun came up! I spent the day in leisurely fashion. We would move out for basic training in the morning.

Currahees…I obviously learned a lesson that solitary morning. Most jobs are not half as hard as they look. I thereafter tackled many new projects and learned by doing.

I also saw a rare form of leadership. The Sarge could have disciplined me, but he instead sized me up. He led by example. He also generously rewarded genuine effort.

My intention was to wear my uniform to be just like my Dad. The uniform didn’t immediately make me a soldier. But I wore that uniform daily…to face whatever tasks it demanded. Over time, the uniform’s duties made the soldier.

In the end, I didn’t wear the uniform for my Dad; I wore the uniform for myself. I also wore it in respect of the men that I served with, those who served before me…and for those who serve now. The uniform shaped us all.