(This is the continuation of Part One. Scroll down the page to find the beginning.
This story has come up in conversation so often that I thought it needed to be recorded. Everything is true. The timeline, facts, and dialogue have not been altered. The names have been changed, mainly because I’m not sure of the statute of limitations for those still in the service.)
A friend taught me a great trick for getting my bunk tight for inspection. Once the covers were pulled up and back to meet the regulation 4-inch fold, I tucked all the excess under the mattress. Then, I leaned over the bunk and began pawing at the covers like a dog digging a hole, pulling and stretching the sheet and blanket to the side. A few rounds of this treatment and you could really bounce a coin off the surface, not that I ever saw anyone do something that ridiculous. It was, however, a bit of work. If I had my way, I would have left the bunk inspection-ready and slept on the floor, but that was against our SOP. I was giving the covers one last pull when a fist hammered my hatch (door) and I jumped, striking my head against the metal bunk frame. I opened the hatch to find my squad leader standing in the passage.
“MasterGuns wants to see you.” He glanced past me at the bunk. “Good start, but it still needs work. He turned to leave. “Try not to embarrass me with the Top,” he called over his shoulder. (“Top” is a less formal term for the senior Sergeant in a unit. Master Gunnery Sergeant was the man’s actual rank. “MasterGuns is a little more specific and formal than “Top,” and, more importantly, it sounds far, far cooler). I checked my uniform in the mirror and gave my blouse one hard pull to straighten the creases. With a quick glance to ensure I could see my reflection in my boots, I trooped downstairs, my mind scrolling through the past week, searching for any indiscretion for which I might have been caught.
I rapped twice on the office door and heard a muffled “Enter” from inside. I walked in and stood centered 6 inches before the Top’s desk.
“Didn’t you get your government driver’s license last month, Balboni?” he asked without looking up at me.
“Yes, si-” I caught myself just in time. “Yes, MasterGuns, I did.” Calling a senior Marine Staff NCO “sir” was a sure-fire method to mess up your afternoon. On the other hand, the MasterGuns wasn’t telling the whole story. I was sent to the weekend driving course as punishment for busting curfew with a fellow Marine. We were happily munching cheese fries several hours past midnight when we realized our Platoon Sergeant was sitting several tables away sipping coffee. Attending the driver’s course gave the MasterGuns another qualified driver and deprived me of weekend liberty without requiring any “corrective” paperwork. Everyone won; except me, that is.
“Well, good,” he continued. “I need a driver for the Guest of Honor for our Ball.” He held a set of keys across the desk. “Go get the vehicle, gas it up, and make sure it’s spotless.” He frowned at my uniform. “Your job for the next 72 hours is to make sure the car is immaculate, you’re immaculate, and you’re ready at the drop of a hat to drive guests for me.”
“Aye,aye, MasterGuns,” I said, taking two steps back, pivoting on my heel, and escaping the office before I did anything stupid. Life is all about the small victories.
The car was a pale yellow Chevy Lumina, which I washed, waxed, vacuumed, and then hid in the far reaches of a large parking lot on base. Before leaving it alone, I moved it twice, judging two of my parking selections as being too close to sap-laden cedar trees which might foul the car’s shine, and thus the MasterGuns temper. I was even more fearful that another Marine would spot me parking the car and guess my assignment. The last thing I needed was for a couple of jarheads to amuse themselves by tossing bird poop or mud on the car while it sat unguarded. Hence, I left it several hundred yards from the barracks and well out of sight. I timed my route back to the barracks and felt comfortable that I could reach the car in less than 3 minutes at a fast, but inconspicuous walk.
Anticipation for the Marine Corps Birthday and the Ball continued to build through the day. All the Marines found it difficult to concentrate upon our jobs. The squad leader inspection looming that evening probably had more to do with keeping us focused than any real issue with the state of the barracks. By 1900, most rooms were spotless; gleaming floors, scrubbed windows, and all surfaces free of dust. I stepped through my hatch and took position against the passageway bulkhead (hallway wall) to wait for my squad leader. There were still a few precious moments to clean and only a couple of Marines were already in the hall.
“Balboni, close your door,” my squad leader said, walking down the passage. “I’m not inspecting you while you’re working for the MasterGuns.”
“My room’s ready, sergeant. It’s your call, but I’m ready for inspection.” I didn’t want him to think I would use my temporary job as a privilege.
The sergeant stopped and shrugged. He stuck his head through the door and looked around the room for a few seconds. “Your room looks fine, Balboni. But your job is to represent the unit for the next few days, so keep the room clean, but make sure your uniform and conduct are perfect.” He nodded once and walked away.
Hearing the sergeant’s words made me paranoid about the state of the car. In my mind, I saw the yellow Lumina covered with mud with “Happy Birthday, Marine!” carved into the filth by someone’s middle finger. I decided to check on the car, and perhaps move it again, but didn’t get to the stairwell before Lance Corporal Kamir stopped me and asked if I still had the keys to the paint locker.
“Yeah, why?”
Kamir smiled. “You know the old Russian tank over by the Army cafeteria? The T-34? We’re going to paint it red tonight.”
That explained why Kamir wanted my help. I had one of the only two keys to the paint locker. The other was kept by the Company Gunnery Sergeant. Kamir also possessed a little-known secret; he knew that I had inventoried the paint locker during the summer. And, he knew that I neglected to count several gallons of paint in order to have a ready supply should we ever desire to decorate something “off the books.”
“Stand-by!” a voice hollered down the passage. The SquadLleaders were arriving for the inspection. Kamir stepped to the side of his room’s hatch.
“What time?” I asked.
“About 0200,” Kamir said, and then realized I wasn’t moving towards my room. “Where you going?”
My shoulders tightened in fast panic. I did not want Kamir to know that I had the car. “Just running an errand for Sergeant Walters.” Kamir tilted his head, sensing that there was more to the story.
“Kamir! Get by your hatch!” his squad lead yelled. Kamir jumped back to his doorway and I dashed into the stairwell, calling over my shoulder, “See you in a couple of hours.”
http://brianbalboni.blogspot.com
This story has come up in conversation so often that I thought it needed to be recorded. Everything is true. The timeline, facts, and dialogue have not been altered. The names have been changed, mainly because I’m not sure of the statute of limitations for those still in the service.)
A friend taught me a great trick for getting my bunk tight for inspection. Once the covers were pulled up and back to meet the regulation 4-inch fold, I tucked all the excess under the mattress. Then, I leaned over the bunk and began pawing at the covers like a dog digging a hole, pulling and stretching the sheet and blanket to the side. A few rounds of this treatment and you could really bounce a coin off the surface, not that I ever saw anyone do something that ridiculous. It was, however, a bit of work. If I had my way, I would have left the bunk inspection-ready and slept on the floor, but that was against our SOP. I was giving the covers one last pull when a fist hammered my hatch (door) and I jumped, striking my head against the metal bunk frame. I opened the hatch to find my squad leader standing in the passage.
“MasterGuns wants to see you.” He glanced past me at the bunk. “Good start, but it still needs work. He turned to leave. “Try not to embarrass me with the Top,” he called over his shoulder. (“Top” is a less formal term for the senior Sergeant in a unit. Master Gunnery Sergeant was the man’s actual rank. “MasterGuns is a little more specific and formal than “Top,” and, more importantly, it sounds far, far cooler). I checked my uniform in the mirror and gave my blouse one hard pull to straighten the creases. With a quick glance to ensure I could see my reflection in my boots, I trooped downstairs, my mind scrolling through the past week, searching for any indiscretion for which I might have been caught.
I rapped twice on the office door and heard a muffled “Enter” from inside. I walked in and stood centered 6 inches before the Top’s desk.
“Didn’t you get your government driver’s license last month, Balboni?” he asked without looking up at me.
“Yes, si-” I caught myself just in time. “Yes, MasterGuns, I did.” Calling a senior Marine Staff NCO “sir” was a sure-fire method to mess up your afternoon. On the other hand, the MasterGuns wasn’t telling the whole story. I was sent to the weekend driving course as punishment for busting curfew with a fellow Marine. We were happily munching cheese fries several hours past midnight when we realized our Platoon Sergeant was sitting several tables away sipping coffee. Attending the driver’s course gave the MasterGuns another qualified driver and deprived me of weekend liberty without requiring any “corrective” paperwork. Everyone won; except me, that is.
“Well, good,” he continued. “I need a driver for the Guest of Honor for our Ball.” He held a set of keys across the desk. “Go get the vehicle, gas it up, and make sure it’s spotless.” He frowned at my uniform. “Your job for the next 72 hours is to make sure the car is immaculate, you’re immaculate, and you’re ready at the drop of a hat to drive guests for me.”
“Aye,aye, MasterGuns,” I said, taking two steps back, pivoting on my heel, and escaping the office before I did anything stupid. Life is all about the small victories.
The car was a pale yellow Chevy Lumina, which I washed, waxed, vacuumed, and then hid in the far reaches of a large parking lot on base. Before leaving it alone, I moved it twice, judging two of my parking selections as being too close to sap-laden cedar trees which might foul the car’s shine, and thus the MasterGuns temper. I was even more fearful that another Marine would spot me parking the car and guess my assignment. The last thing I needed was for a couple of jarheads to amuse themselves by tossing bird poop or mud on the car while it sat unguarded. Hence, I left it several hundred yards from the barracks and well out of sight. I timed my route back to the barracks and felt comfortable that I could reach the car in less than 3 minutes at a fast, but inconspicuous walk.
Anticipation for the Marine Corps Birthday and the Ball continued to build through the day. All the Marines found it difficult to concentrate upon our jobs. The squad leader inspection looming that evening probably had more to do with keeping us focused than any real issue with the state of the barracks. By 1900, most rooms were spotless; gleaming floors, scrubbed windows, and all surfaces free of dust. I stepped through my hatch and took position against the passageway bulkhead (hallway wall) to wait for my squad leader. There were still a few precious moments to clean and only a couple of Marines were already in the hall.
“Balboni, close your door,” my squad leader said, walking down the passage. “I’m not inspecting you while you’re working for the MasterGuns.”
“My room’s ready, sergeant. It’s your call, but I’m ready for inspection.” I didn’t want him to think I would use my temporary job as a privilege.
The sergeant stopped and shrugged. He stuck his head through the door and looked around the room for a few seconds. “Your room looks fine, Balboni. But your job is to represent the unit for the next few days, so keep the room clean, but make sure your uniform and conduct are perfect.” He nodded once and walked away.
Hearing the sergeant’s words made me paranoid about the state of the car. In my mind, I saw the yellow Lumina covered with mud with “Happy Birthday, Marine!” carved into the filth by someone’s middle finger. I decided to check on the car, and perhaps move it again, but didn’t get to the stairwell before Lance Corporal Kamir stopped me and asked if I still had the keys to the paint locker.
“Yeah, why?”
Kamir smiled. “You know the old Russian tank over by the Army cafeteria? The T-34? We’re going to paint it red tonight.”
That explained why Kamir wanted my help. I had one of the only two keys to the paint locker. The other was kept by the Company Gunnery Sergeant. Kamir also possessed a little-known secret; he knew that I had inventoried the paint locker during the summer. And, he knew that I neglected to count several gallons of paint in order to have a ready supply should we ever desire to decorate something “off the books.”
“Stand-by!” a voice hollered down the passage. The SquadLleaders were arriving for the inspection. Kamir stepped to the side of his room’s hatch.
“What time?” I asked.
“About 0200,” Kamir said, and then realized I wasn’t moving towards my room. “Where you going?”
My shoulders tightened in fast panic. I did not want Kamir to know that I had the car. “Just running an errand for Sergeant Walters.” Kamir tilted his head, sensing that there was more to the story.
“Kamir! Get by your hatch!” his squad lead yelled. Kamir jumped back to his doorway and I dashed into the stairwell, calling over my shoulder, “See you in a couple of hours.”
http://brianbalboni.blogspot.com
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