I had been in the army for Two months of Basic Training and a week as a holdover. While my friends were assigned to the Garbage Detail, totally bored, I wandered between the bowling alley and the library.
At Ft. Campbell, all the administrative departments had their own office buildings, set in a row in the middle of the fort. It was called, AG Row. AG for Adjutant General Row. The AG was head of the administrative section of the army. Administrative Services managed all written orders. Personnel Services was obviously personnel. Others were Payroll, Supply, Procurement and more. The buildings were identical one-story ramblers held three feet off the ground by pillars.
I was walking down AG Row. I noticed a Coke machine threw one of the open doors. You’re only supposed to go in a building if you have official business there. I didn’t care. I wanted a can of pop. I quietly entered and put my coins in the slot.
Before a can rattled and dropped a voice yelled. “What are you doing her wondering around in the middle of the afternoon, private?”
“Sorry, sergeant,” I said. “I’m a holdover.”
“Can you type?” he asked.
“Forty words a minute. I took typing classes in high school. I didn’t mention it was forty words with thirty errors. I figured that with the Viet Nam war, if someone asked can I shoot a rifle, to say ‘no’ If the ask can you type, answer, ‘of course.’
The sergeant told me I was now reporting to him and assigned to Administrative Services. At Admin. Services, they process orders. If you get promoted, there’s an order. If you change housing, there’s an order. If you need new shirt, there's an order.
The time was before computers. Paper tapes with punched holes, like a ticker-tape machine, connected to a typewriter. You put in a piece of typing special printing press paper and a punched tape for, say a promotion. You hit the start button. The Freeden Flexowriter typed the page heater, the date and details of the promotion then stopped. On the keyboard you type the soldier’s name and hit start. The machine types a few more lines and a signature block. A proofer checks the special paper, called a mat. A couple of times that day a runner takes a stack of mats next door to the AG’s office where Cornel Debordino, would sign them. The signed mats come back, are put on a printing press, and copies are printed and collated. The printed pages go to the distribution office were all the appropriate people and offices are mailed their copies.
My job was just typist. After a couple of days and with lots of curiosity I learned how to do all the steps.
In the office were six typists, a proofreader, two press operators, a runner and the Sergeant in charge, Sergeant Drake. The Drake reported to lieutenant Ryan. She reported to Captain Fulton. She reported to a civilian, Mr. Walker. Whew… lots of people. Ther’s more. Walker reported to Major Parker who reported to Debardino.
I learned that all the officers liked to play golf. Out of Basic Training I was promoted to private E2. Most of the typists were E2 but had been busted to E1 because of a party and too much liquor.
Debardino was signing a pile of mats I h ad brought over to his office. He muttered a complaint about signing orders cutting into his golf time. I told him how he could sign a couple of printer mats, using different pens. The printers could lay (print) the signatures on the orders. They’d look just like signed originals. At the end of the day, he could review the orders we had print-signed for him and rescind any he wouldn’t have signed. That way he’d have time for golf.
“Perfect, Blumer,” he said. “Get that set up for me right away.
By the end of the day, I had everything in place. The next Monday was a golf day. So far, I had been in the Army for two months and two weeks. Because the typists were all busted, Sergent Drake told me I was uncharged until they came back from their game.
About noon, someone yelled, “Attention!” We all stood, snapped to attention and turned around. It was the fort commander, General Birdsong!
“Who’s in charge!” he demanded.
I saluted and answered. “I am sir. Private Blumer.”
“A private? He said.
“Yes sir,” I said and assaulted twice more. “They’re all at a meeting.”
The General looked me up and down then came closer. “Private,: he said. “When I have a priority order that needs to be cut, I give it to Coronel Debardino. He pulls strings and cuts red tape to process my order and have it back on my desk in three days! If you’re standing in for him, then here” he handed me some papers. “On my desk in three days!”
I saluted again. The General told me one salute was sufficient.
I nodded, thought and then said, ?Have a cup of coffee, sir and I’ll have it for you in five minutes.”
“Repeat that,” he said.
“Five minutes, sir,” I said saluted yet again.
The General stood motionless for a couple heart beats just staring at me. Without changing his stare, he raised his arm and pulled back his sleeve to expose his wristwatch. He looked at his watch then at me and said one word. “Start!”
“Wow, crab,” I thought and sat at my Flexowriter. I only had to manually type his name and todays date. I sprinted to the printers in the back room The two civilian men had overheard my conversation with the General. The lead pressman grabbed the mat plus a signature mat and ran off 2o collated copies. He grinned, thrust them at me and put his hand in the middle of my back. He gave me a shove. The other pressman held the door open.
The General’s aid had just given the General a cup of coffee.
“Would you like to finish that, sir, or you could take it with you.” I handed him his order and put my other hand behind my back to avoid saluting.
He looked at the order then me. With a bit of a scowl, he said, “Why does it take Debardino three days when he’s pulling strings?”
I scratched my head. “Um… I don’t know, sir.”
“I think you do. Spill it. What does Debardino do with my order?
“He gives it to Major Parker.”
“What’s Parker do?” the General asked.
“He gives it to Captain Fulton.”
“What’s Fulton do?”
“Gives it to Lieutenant Ryan.”
“And Ryan does…”
“She gives it to Sergeant Drake, Sir.”
“What then,” the General asked, his voice getting louder.
I started non stop saluting. “I type it up, get it printed and signed and give it back to him, Sir.”
The General handed his cup to his aid without looking away from me. “This Wednesday morning you be in my office at 8:00 sharp.” He spun around and was out the door before I could salute just one more time. “Boy, what a …” I said softly. “Alright, coffee break for everyone then back to work.”
The runner from next door came running. “Debardino’s back in his office. He wants to see you. Now!” he said and left.
“Now what kind of trouble am I in,” I questioned, speaking softly mainly to myself.
Next door, I walked briskly into the Coronel’s office, stood at attention in front of his desk and saluted. “You wanted to see me, Sir?”
“Blumer,” the Coronel said and motioned to a side chair. “At ease. Sit. I was just coming back from golf when Birdsong came out of Admin Services. He said he was glad he didn’t have to wait for me to sign his order. I faked it and said you caught me walking between buildings for another meeting. He didn’t question it. He waived some papers in the air and said, “One day, now. One day!” Off he went.”
“You saved my butt. I owe you. Is there a favor I can grant?”
I thought for just a second. “You know those Thursday inspections you always do? Could you just pass me by?”
“Is that all? Debardino said and laughed. “You’ve got it.”
That Wednesday I made sure I was exactly on time.
I stood at attention in the General’s office. HE gave me a funny look and told me my uniform didn’t have enough starch, I needed a haircut and new boots.”
New boots? I knew mine were scratched but new boots. Why not a good polish. The word ‘ ungrateful,” popped into my head.
The General stood, took something off his desk and approached. “That’s no way for a sergeant to look,,” he said, shook my hand and gave me a sergeants insignia.
“Thanks,” I said. “But I’m just a private.”
“Not anymore,” he said and returned to his desk. “Debardino’s having your promotion order cut right now. You’ll notice some personnel changes when you get back to your office. You’re the new NCOIC (Non Commissioned Officer In Charge) of Administration Services. You keep giving me one day service and everyone else two days. Do that and you can keep those stripes. Congratulations and only one salute please.”
I thanked him and left. Two months and two weeks and I went from nothing to sergeant. Ed’s going to go nuts.
That Thursday all the soldiers from all the offices in AG row stood in a long inspection line. Debardino would inspect a soldier, flip the flap of an unbuttoned pocket and order KP for the day. He’d look me up and down. I could have buttons missing, yet he would always say, “Standing tall, sergeant Blumer. Standing tall.”
