It was in early 1977 that I helped save the American Way of Life.
No, really.
I was an E-4 in Military Intelligence, assigned to be an interrogator. Technically, I was part of an "IPW Team", which acronym was for "Interrogation Prisoner (Of) War". This meant I spent my days reading East German military magazines, since lacking a war at that time we also suffered from a complete and quite serious lack of Prisoners of War. This was not helped by our unit being stationed in Kansas. Instead of blue-eyed, blond haired Prussian commies, we were surrounded by small towns filled with blue-eyed, blonde haired and corn fed Kansas girls. Not that we complained about this. But I digress.
East German military magazines were the Army’s way of providing us with something upon which to hone our language skills. The Mormon lieutenant that ran the IPW platoon, known as "Pooh Bear" behind his back as much for his feckless leadership style as his rotund appearance, would regularly assign me to translate some East German military magazine article for his perusal. I would dutifully read the article, understanding every third word of the turgid Teutonic prose, and then type up, on a venerable standard sized manual Olympic typewriter, an old gray metal twenty-pounder that had almost certainly seen service in World War Two, a narrative that was largely if not entirely fictive..
I recall that one article was on East German Chemical Decontamination Teams. Either that, or it was about steam cleaning Russian trucks in East German military service. Whichever was the case, I composed a narrative about the efficacy of such teams that ended with the completely hallucinatory revelation that the Russians had even better steam cleaning technology than they had given to their lowly East German allies, and that said Super Steam Cleaning technology was a threat to the freedom loving peoples of the Western World, which in the East German Military Magazines was always referred to as "The Revanchist Forces of the Counter-Revolutionary Western Conspiracy", which in German is really impressive sounding, much scarier than "NATO", which in German comes across as something along the lines of "League of Countries of the Great Northern Waters".
Anyway, one day I was reading one of those East German Military magazines, only this time it was an article about how to launch a SCUD missile, though it was not called SCUD by the East Germans, to whom it was known affectionately as "R-17". I was mentally composing a dissertation for Pooh on what had happened to models R-1 to R-16, and how they were doubtless hidden somewhere in bunkers just waiting to be rolled out to devastate the forces of the Free World, when Pooh himself appeared, hovering over my four foot square brown metal government desk. (It was painted a shade of brown that can only be described as "bile brown", so close to yellow as it were while retaining its' essential disgusting earth tone. But I digress).
"I have a special assignment for you and Specialist Hudson."
Now it is of some importance to understand that Specialist Hudson was the other half of my IPW Team, as well as a consumer of a pint bottle of vodka daily. Still being on the sunny side of thirty, he had yet to show the debilitative effects of this, other than an betimes consumptive sounding cough which was abetted, if not aided, by his regular pack a day consumption of "Kool" brand mentholated cigarettes.
Somewhat legendary in our confined circumstances for the above, as well as for his experiences in Berlin in an earlier hitch, where he had, he claimed, worked his way through every brothel, legal as well as extra-legal, in that divided outpost of the Free World. The details of this amatory "Grand Tour" he regularly expounded upon in such detail as to make pale the otherwise fascinating tales we regularly read in the letter pages of "Penthouse" magazine, which journal Specialist Hudson would not deign to read, His only reading material, other than Russian Military Magazines (Russian being his linguistic specialty. He could describe at least fifteen highly unlikely sexual acts in thirty three different ways in Russian, none of which I could verify but all of which sounded quite disgusting, what with all those glottal stops and swallowed consonants. But I digress.) was "Easy Rider" motorcycle magazine and "Hustler", which then was new and therefore forbidden officially for soldiers to read, though I believe it now to be so "de riguer" for soldiers that a gift subscription may be endowed upon each enlistee as a form of subliminal training in how to be a true American Fighting Person (since we no long have American Fighting Men, because Fighting Women are now part of the Forces of the Free World.)
Well, it seems that Pooh did indeed have a Special Assignment for Specialist Hudson and I.
He took us to the rear area of our old cavalry barracks office, past the piles of rusted out Russian machine guns and assault rifles, to a locker filled with "Aggressor" uniforms. You see, while everyone knew we were gonna fight the Russians toe to toe in "Nukular" combat someday, it wasn’t considered "fair" to actually use Russian uniforms when it was needful to portray the enemy. Instead we had the "Aggressor" forces, which was only proper because as Fighting Men of the Free World everyone knew that we were just defending ourselves form the forces of evil seeking to Aggress upon us, hence "Aggressor" seemed apt as the name for the forces of evil, since forces of evil is harder to type on a standard upright Olympia manual than "Aggressor" which actually flows rather nicely off the fingers to the keys. But I digress.
“I want you to pick out Aggressor uniforms that fit, get into them, and report to me. ASAP!’
Pooh lived to use terms like “ASAP” and “Pronto”. I envisioned him late nights watching old war movies on a ten inch black and white SONY in the Bachelor Officer Quarters, feverishly taking notes to assist in the further enhancement of his martial linguistic skill. That skill, and his ability to recite the General Orders perfectly from memory had qualified him for his high leadership position The Army has a place for everyone.
None of the uniforms fit us. Turned out this was because they were meant to be worn over your regular Forces of the Free World uniform, so that you could in a flash turn from Evil Aggressor to American Fighting Man, in case the war games were over and you had to return to regular life. I believe the Army got this idea from Superman, who has used it in somewhat of a different context. But I digress.
We worked out the sartorial confusion, donned two Aggressor outfits that didn’t hang too loosely, and admired our new outfits for a moment. Specialist Hudson immediately noted the rather capacious quality of the large cargo pockets of the Aggressor tunic, and thereupon secreted in the left lower of said cargo pockets a pint bottle of Stolichnaya. Specialist Hudson, in the normal course of Human Affairs, only drank true Russian vodka, alleging that American vodka contained impurities that would contaminate his otherwise pristine “vital bodily fluids”. He lived to quote “Dr. Strangelove” like that, especially after he had had just enough “Stoli” to get him going in the morning.
Anyway, we reported to Lieutenant Pooh, and he instructed us to get over to the Motor Pool, check out a jeep, and report to some battalion on Custer Hill, the other side of the fort where the Real Soldiers lived. We were going to help with some War Games. They needed to practice capturing Enemies of the Free World, just in case that “Toe to Toe” bit ever took place.
We weren’t too sure what all this entailed, as we had never been trained in how to be Enemies of the Free World, though Specialist Hudson opined, during the drive to the Motor Pool in his rusted green 1965 Mustang, that it probably entailed us speaking a lot in German and Russian while looking aggressive. Since that matched, coincidentally, with our techniques for picking up women when in the mood, it seemed appropriate to him, and who was I to argue with someone of his experience? Besides, he was already half way into that bottle in his cargo pocket, and who was I to argue with a semi-enstupored Aggressor with 165 horsepower at his command? But I digress.
The Motor Pool sergeant was somewhat miffed that we were not there to paint jeep battery compartments with acid resistant tar-based black paint, or grease rebuilt wheel bearings, two of his least favorite tasks which he regularly complained should be done by us and not his highly trained mechanics who were usually busy reading those cute tech manuals done cartoon style by Will Eisner, who had quit doing “Spirit” because the Army paid way better and regularly too, but I digress. We finally got a jeep, and headed out to the aforementioned Battalion for assignment as Official Aggressors.
That was when the MP’s stopped us. They drove special jeeps with a flashing red light mounted on a pole beside the rear seats. That is, it flashed when they wanted you to stop. Which these particular MP’s had decided they wanted us to do.
“You’re out of uniform!’ They informed us. I deferred to Specialist Hudson, as he was the superior of our unit. That is always the case in military affairs, that you defer to the superior, especially when he has been drinking.
“Damn right, Sergeant!” offered up Specialist Hudson.
“Don’t get smart with me,,,”
The MP sergeant looked for insignia to aid him in how exactly, in the proper military manner, to address Specialist Hudson. The Aggressor uniform lacked any markings.
Now, one of the benefits of being an Interrogator: In order to make it efficacious in our interrogation of Forces of Evil prisoners, we were allowed to remove our rank insignia, and in place thereof bear a simple “U.S.” on our collars. We could assume the “notional” rank that suited us, the idea being that the “U’S.’” was usually worn only by officers anyway, and that we were too high and might to bother with wearing any other actual emblem of our rank and power. Specialist Hudson often liked to claim the rank of Generalissimo, when such opportunity arose, since that was Stalin’s rank in the Red Army, and it almost rhymed with “Stoli”, or so he claimed. But I digress.
Specialist Hudson flashed the “U’S.” on his fatigues, from beneath his Aggressor tunic.
“Major Hudson, Sergeant, First MI Company, on special assignment.”
The Sergeant took a step back, frowned, and sniffed the air.
“Have you been drinking, Major?”
Specialist Hudson frowned right back,
“Damn right, Sergeant! I am officially portraying a Generalissimo of the Red Army for the war games involving First Battalion of Second Brigade, which are taking place today in the maneuver area. As such, I empowered to act exactly as a Russian Generalissimo would act, and drinking is part of that depiction,”
A devotee of The Method, Specialist Hudson at this point removed the pint bottle of “Stoli” from his capacious cargo pocket and pulled a rather “Brando-esque” drink therefrom.
The MP sergeant saluted Specialist Hudson.
“We’ll have to escort you the rest of the way, Major. In order to prevent any other MP unit from interfering with your mission. Have your driver follow our vehicle.”
Though the MP sergeant offered to use his siren to clear the road for us, “Major” Hudson, after considering the idea for a portentous thirty seconds or so, cleared his throat and declared that this was “the worst fucking idea he had heard since breakfast”, since we were, after all, “on a Top Secret mission and did not want to draw more attention to ourselves than was absolutely fucking necessary”.
So the MP’s just flashed their red light while they led and I followed. This was good, since Specialist Hudson had lost the directions to the battalion headquarters. We had planned to drive to each battalion until we hit upon the right one. This is often how the military conducts matters. After all, if you invade enough countries, eventually you will hit upon the one that has the evil intentions you were looking for in the first place. But I digress.
We reported to the Battalion Headquarters. They had never heard of us. I believe this to have been due to the Top Secret nature of our mission. At least, this was how “Major” Hudson explained it to the S-2 Captain of the battalion.
“First Lieutenant Smith and I have Special Orders for a Top Secret training mission, Captain.”
We
had determined, during the escorted portion of our drive, that since
I was now driving a Major, I must be a Lieutenant. I wanted to be a
captain, but “Major Hudson” (for such was how he insisted I now
address him) insisted that driving a Major around was beneath the
limited, though still considerable dignity of a Captain, but could be
considered as being “right up the alley” of a mere Lieutenant.
After some further discussion, he allowed as how I could be a First
Lieutenant, but with no time in grade. Since this meant I would
notionally outrank Pooh Bear, it seemed satisfactory enough to me,
and I decided not to push matters further along this front. Although
I did point out that if The Major was to play the role of an
Aggressor Generalissimo then I might be at the very least a General
of Aggression, if not a Field Marshal, or even a Frenchified
"Marechal de Camp". The Major pointed out that I did
not have a bottle of “Stoli”, so perhaps I ought to be satisfied
with field grade rank along the lines of Major Aggressor or some such
notional position of authority. But I digress.
After some minor contretemps, betwixt The Major and the S-2, which affair concluded with a call to Pooh, upon the conclusion of which said foofaraw was resolved. Pooh informed the S-2 that our mission was authorized, that it was indeed Top Secret, and that “Major Hudson” was who he said he was. Pooh knew better than to mess with success.
The S-2 had a large grid map of the maneuver area laid out on a table that covered one half of his largish office. It had a clear plastic overlay spread across two -thirds of its' surface, with grease pencil marks thereon showing deployments of platoons, companies, batteries and various HQ and support elements for the war game. It was a Thing of Beauty. An elegant defense plan destined for victory. In a word: unbeatable.