Decades
ago, I was the company clerk in the U.S. Army Reserves. I was my own version of Radar O’Reilly from
M*A*S*H. I controlled all things,
including the company jeep, duty rosters, and the paperwork. And the Army
operates on paperwork (in triplicate), especially when it’s not operating in
the field.
The epiphany
One
day, it dawned on me. Who types up all
the orders? Me. Who has deserved a promotion for nearly a
year? Me. And who has told me countless times I
deserved a promotion, but is too lazy to initiate anything? Captain Cappuccino, my commanding officer
(name changed for his own protection). In
my military mind, the math was compelling and the moral imperative was apparent.
So
I searched for an MOS (Military Occupation Specialty) slot that was open. I knew Spanish and found an opening for “interpreter”
to help interrogate Spanish-speaking prisoners.
Since we weren’t at war with Spain or Uruguay, the slot was ideal.
The daring deed
I
typed up the orders and left the signature line open for Captain Cappuccino. I had a pile of about eight items for him to
sign, so I stuck my orders in the middle of the pile and handed it over to my lazy
bones C.O. for signatures, all the while engaging him in small talk about the deteriorating
condition of the coffee machine, the only source of sustenance for the entire
unit.
“I
wish someone would fix that thing,” he remarked as he dashed off signatures.
Getting my
stripes
The
day came for an official company meeting, the official company meeting. The entire unit stood at “parade rest” in
formation. Captain Cappuccino glanced at his paperwork and shouted, “Trottier,
David, front and center!”
I
marched to the captain, saluted respectfully, and stood at attention—chin up,
chest out, stomach in. “Yes, sir.”
Then,
he looked puzzled as he glanced through the paperwork (in triplicate). He
whispered, “Did I promote you or something?”
I
did not panic; I was ready for the question. “That’s your signature right
there, Sir, and I am most grateful.”
“Ah…okay,
I see. Hmm, well, Trottier, you earned
it. Carry on.”
“Thank
you, Sir.” I saluted, about-faced, and
marched smartly back into formation.
The aftermath
To
this day, I don’t know if the good captain realized I had helped him do the
right thing, or if he thought he had initiated the promotion himself. He seemed content with what had happened.
After
that, I became drunk with power. I unilaterally requisitioned a new coffee
machine and surprised Captain Cappuccino with a dramatic unveiling, all at
taxpayer expense.
And
now? Now, I just march forward and keep
living.
