“Did you threaten someone again today, Sergeant Bravo?” First Sergeant Worshiem asked me.
“Sort of. You know Private Hill, that white soldier? He wouldn’t stop going off about my father being a dirty fucking Mexican and how he never bathed. I found that a big problem because I’m a sergeant and he’s a private, and that’s extremely disrespectful to me and my father, especially since he doesn’t even know my dad. I needed him to pay attention to me, so I threw the hammer at him, never intending to hit him. Or make that hole in the wall. I mean, if this was your parents being talked about, how would you react?”
“I wouldn’t try to kill him,” he told me in a very serious tone.
“Neither would I. I wasn’t even trying to hurt him. I was just trying to scare Private Hill.”
He sighed a little bit, and after thinking for a minute, he said, “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you…Look, I’m going to give you something to think about. I’m going to give you a task. We have a mission to pick up the troops from the Frankfurt Air Force Base tomorrow night, and it looks like I just found my man for the job. Go down to transportation and get a bus license before tomorrow. Can you complete this mission for me, Sergeant Bravo?”
“Yes, First Sergeant,” I replied.
I was determined to complete the mission the first sergeant gave me because I knew if I hadn’t I would be discharged for bad conduct and sent home. I didn’t want my military career to end, and I didn’t want to disappoint my father. He was proud of me when I got back from Vietnam because I came back with an honorable discharge and many accolades to show for my service. But if I was court-martialed, it would be a very different story.
I got to transportation around 11:00 a.m. that Friday morning, and when the driving instructor saw me looking around, he approached me.
“What are you here for?” the RAD asked.
“I was sent here by the first sergeant to get a bus license, so I can pick up our troops coming back home.”
“Well, you’re going to need to come back on Monday morning when we open. We close at 12:00 p.m. today, and the course is a twelve-hour program split up over three days.”
This wasn’t good. I needed to get the license before tomorrow or else I would fail my mission, and if I failed my mission, then it would be my ass.
“Well, before I start the course, can you at least show me how to operate the bus?”
“Well, we close in an hour. I can show you a few things.”
He taught me the basics—how to work the gearbox, how to open and close the door, turn it on and off. This still wasn’t enough. There was no way that this would be enough to show for a license. There was so much red tape in front of me that I would have to figure out how to cut on my own.
“Thank you for showing me some of the basics, but I still need the license before tomorrow. Is there any way you can sign for my license?”
“Well, I can log you down for an hour of training, but I can’t sign off on a license. But if you go to your battalion maintenance officer, he may be able to do something for you.”
I waited until after lunch and walked over to the battalion maintenance office. I told the motor pool sergeant that I needed to talk to the battalion maintenance officer (BMO), and I was lucky that I got there when I did because it was a Friday afternoon and the BMO was ready to book.
“Sir, can you sign for my bus license? Here, I have this form from an instructor!” I said as I handed him the form.
I didn’t explain that it was only for one hour, but he was thorough and looked over the document. “Hell no, I’m not signing a bus license for you! You have one hour of training!”
“Sir, I need the license so I can pick up the bus before the transportation station closes at noon tomorrow. My mission is to pick up the troops coming home from the field exercise in Italy.”
“The only person that can waive the twelve-hour requirement is the battalion XO (executive officer). Major Hoople should still be in his office. Go ask the sergeant major to see him and see what he can do.”
I rushed to battalion headquarters and told the clerk that I needed permission to speak to the sergeant major for a priority mission.
He got up and knocked on the sergeant major’s door.
“Sergeant Bravo is here to speak with you. May he come in?” he asked on my behalf.
There was a brief exchange of words, but the sergeant major’s side was inaudible through the door. When the clerk was done speaking, he opened the door and allowed me through.
“Good afternoon, Sergeant Major.”
“What have you come to see me for today?” he asked me.
“I’m here to ask to see the battalion XO. I was assigned to drive the bus to bring the troops home tomorrow night at 7:00 p.m. I was told that I need a field officer’s signature to waive the requirement for the bus license.”
“Sergeant, I wouldn’t want to be the person that keeps the troops from coming home. I’ll contact the XO and tell him you need to speak with him right away.”
He picked up the phone sitting to his right and dialed a number. Another brief exchange of explanation takes place, and he let me know that I’ve been cleared to walk over to the battalion XO’s office.
“Come in, Sergeant Bravo, so I can sign for your license,” the battalion XO called out when I stood in front of his door.
My persistence had paid off again, and I had the signature for my license. But my mission was far from complete.
The next morning I headed out to the Stuttgart to pick up my bus, getting there a little bit before noon. I went to the transportation office at the entrance and showed the RAD my paperwork and license, then he gave me my logbook and the key to my bus.
“The bus must be brought back in the same condition as it was when you took it,” the RAD told me.
That was the plan, but I had a sneaking suspicion that it might not happen that way. I didn’t have much training. I didn’t even know how to turn on the heater!
“How do I turn on the heater?” I asked the RAD.
He gave me a concerned look and went out with me to turn on the heater, and I’m glad he did because it was cold as the wicked witch of the north’s tit that day. I took off for the Frankfurt Air Force Base, and when I got there around 3:00 p.m., I told the airman at the information desk my flight number and asked him when it would arrive. He pointed to the arrival/departure board on the wall above him.
I read that the flight would arrive at 7:00 a.m. the next day. That can’t be right. The first sergeant told me 7:00 p.m. Must have been a delay, or maybe I was just reading it wrong.
“Is Flight 56 really arriving at 7:00 a.m. tomorrow?” I asked the airman.
“Yes, sir.”
“In that case I need a place
