In June of 1980, I was promoted to Staff Sergeant, which changed my MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) from 45N Organizational Tank Turret Mechanic (M60s) to 45K Support Maintenance Armament Sergeant.

Two weeks later I was on my way to Germany for my second peacetime overseas tour. The change in MOS had me going from Armor and Cavalry units (Garry Owen! The Seventh First!) to a support maintenance unit, and what a culture shock that was. I will not identify the unit or the post in order to protect the innocent. And the guilty. And me.

I arrived on a Sunday and they found me a temporary bunk in the barracks. Monday morning I fell out for PT and was shocked to see everyone dressed in random sweats or shorts and tee shirts and wearing running shoes. No one matched anyone else, not even the officers or NCOs. I was in fatigues and combat boots just like I was used to. First shock.

My new company commander didn’t know what to do with me so he made me the training NCO and also the Headquarters Platoon Sergeant. All of a sudden, I went from running a 4 man maintenance section to in charge of an 85 man platoon with 5 Sergeants First Class and 8 Staff Sergeants, all senior in rank to me, but answering to me. Second shock.

I also ended up in charge of all training records and training scheduling for a 190 man company. That turning out to be a full time job in itself for the first six months until I got things straightened out after years of shoddy or non-existent record keeping. But that’s another story.

Three months in and I was starting to get a handle on things when HE showed up. Private Shmedlapp (and yes, that really was his name). He fell out for work call wearing fatigue trousers, a zippered hoodie and combat boots with no laces. No hat, no field jacket, no fatigue shirt, no dog tags. Not even skivvies or socks. He had managed to lose his duffle bag and all of his uniforms while in transit and had borrowed everything he was wearing from others in his squad. After explaining to his squad leader that I was not amused, I sent the pair to the clothing sales store to get him squared away.

Problem solved.

I thought.

Nope.

Shmedlapp had to be the worst and unluckiest soldier since Sad Sack. First, he fell into the sump in the oil change pit. Never mind that the oil change pit was covered with wooden boards and there was a steel grate over the sump. He managed.

He mistook the brake and accelerator pedals and drove a deuce and a half into the doors of the post exchange building. Up a flight of stairs.

He drove the CO’s jeep into the oil change pit. Had to get a wrecker in to lift it out.

I had his military driving license pulled and refused to let him apply for a POV (Privately Owned Vehicle) license.

He drained the oil from the transmission of a tank recovery vehicle and replaced it with antifreeze.

I assigned him to be a full time street sweeper, cleaning the motor pool and the streets between the barracks and the shops. He got his head and shoulders stuck in a storm drain.

He was never on time. He was never in the correct uniform. He lost more gear than the rest of the company combined. He had so many statements of charges (paying for stuff he lost or destroyed) that he was on half pay for a year.

His file of counseling statements was two and a half inches thick. I was begging the First Sergeant to chapter him out of the army and save my sanity. He refused. I think he was enjoying watching me try to deal with this disaster.

I called Shmedlapp into my office. I stood him at attention. At the time I had a wonderful pair of Corcoran jump boots that had the most marvelous squeak when I rocked from heel to toe. I stood behind him rocking. He could feel my breath on the back of his neck.

I saw beads of sweat building up in his hairline.

In the quietest voice I could manage, I murmured, “Private Shmedlapp. I know why you are here.”

After a couple of minutes, I said,” Your mother hates me.”

Several minutes later, I spoke again.

“She sent you here to piss me off.”

Shmedlapp was shaking and on the verge of fainting.

I spoke even more quietly. “When we finish here, I want you to go to your room and write your mother a letter.”

I dropped my voice even more and said, “tell her,” I screamed as loud as I could, “IT’S WORKING.”