“Uh… yes, Dubray, I get the picture. And I understand you’re gonna do the best you can to soldier your way back for us. Now let me talk to First Sergeant Sullivan about your new duties. In the meantime, you report back to Lieutenant MacCarty and tell him… well, just tell him to come and see me. And that’ll be all now, Dubray.”
He departed, and I went searching for my first sergeant. Upon finding him, I said, “It’s about Gomer Pyle, First Sergeant.”
“Who, sir?”
“Dubray, 2d Platoon’s chapter case.”
“Yes, sir. Mistake, and I told the young lieutenant as much. Willie’s only problem is he’s just a little bit slower on the uptake than the rest of us. But he wants to do right, and, by God, I’d rather have a dumb soldier who wants to soldier than a college draftee who doesn’t!”
“Glad to hear you say that, First Sergeant,” I replied. “He’s yours.”
“Ah, say what, sir?”
“I’m holding the chapter in abeyance for thirty days pending an evaluation of his performance in a new job. Sergeant Sullivan, please find Sweet Willie Dubray a new job.”
Sullivan looked at me suspiciously a moment, and then a glimmer of a smile formed. “Okay, sir. Think I might have just the job for him.”
Later that afternoon, sitting in my sandbagged CP on the bridge’s southern approach, occupied with a change-of-command inventory, I overheard the Bull conversing with our problem child just outside the bunker.
“Now listen, Willie, and listen closely. From now on you’re attached to company headquarters, and you have only one task to perform. That’s to make goddamn sure me and the old man always—and Willie, I mean always—have hot coffee. I don’t care if it’s night or day, sun or rain, moving or stationary, you make sure me and the old man have our coffee. Understand?”
“Yes, First Sergeant,” Dubray complaisantly replied.
“Now, Willie,” Sullivan continued, “that means you don’t have to worry ‘bout cutting charges, or aligning aiming stakes, or plotting fires, or anything else. All you gotta do is make sure me and the captain have our coffee.”
A somewhat unorthodox approach, but I guess it’s a start.
It was a good start! The Bull had found the key to Sweet Willie.
He wasn’t a bad or a dumb soldier, merely a young man who lacked the educational advantages enjoyed by most of us. A young man who had been given too many things to do too quickly and had lost confidence in himself. But he soon excelled in preparing hot instant Cration coffee under the most trying of conditions. Rain or shine, dark or light, on valley floor or in mountain’s tropical rain forest, Willie was always there with a canteen cup of coffee in his hand.
Of course, we weren’t serving in the British army and thus weren’t authorized a “batman” at taxpayers’ expense. So once Willie proved to us—and more importantly, to himself—that he could do one thing really well, the first sergeant had Blair and Anderson begin teaching him radio telephone procedures. Within a short time, Sweet Willie became a capable RTO. If his voice transmissions weren’t always procedurally perfect, they were always colorful!
But, as we soon learned, Sweet Willie’s real forte lay in the field of logistics. A couple weeks into his probationary month he approached me with a suggestion for resolving our uniform quandary. And, indeed, it was a problem. In the boonies, one did not have his own uniforms; our laundered jungle fatigues came to us weekly on the evening log bird. All sizes were intermingled, and it was every man for himself.
You might end up with size small faded trousers, and a brand-new extra-large jacket.
“See, sir,” Sweet Willie drawled, as we sat sharing a cup of his coffee, watching the sky darken, “this uniform thing’s pissing everybody off, and hell, I don’t see no reason for it. I mean, ain’t no reason for us to dive into a bundle of jungles like we be a bunch of porkers at swill time.”
“I know, Willie,” I responded. “And the problem is high on my list of priorities. However, there are… uh… other priorities. But if you have a suggestion, I’m all ears.”
He brightened. “Well, sir, I’ve been a doing a little figuring here, and what with I knowing ‘bout the size of every swinging dick… uh…
Richard in the company…” He grinned at what he had just said. “As you know, one time or ‘nother, I been assigned to most of it. Uh… anyway, way I figure it, you take the extras, you know, the extra smalls and extra large, and put ’em aside. I mean, fuck, ain’t that many of ’em anyway, and them what needs ’em, we can order special like of something. Then it’s kind of simple like. You just have the smalls, mediums, and larges.”
“Okay, Willie,” I said, not knowing what else to say. Because I had no earthly idea what he was talking about.
“Yes, sir, then you have trains break out the company uniform dump into four bundles. That there’s the three line platoons and one bundle what’s for us in headquarters and Four Six. In each of them bundles, they put the uniforms what fit the guys in that platoon. Like in Two Six, I figure we need six smalls, twelve mediums, and nine large.”
“Yeah, but Willie,” I interrupted him, “those sizes are changing constantly. I mean, we have soldiers rotating in and out of the company on nearly a daily basis.”
“Yes, sir, but that don’t matter none. Mean, we ‘port our foxhole strength for issue of charlie rats. Ain’t no reason can’t do the same for uniforms. Hell, it be even simpler, seeing we’d only be a doing it once a week ‘stead of everyday like we do the foxhole.”
“Okay,” I somewhat warily replied, still not comprehending the mechanics of his proposal.
Dubray, interpreting my “okay” as approval, handed me a dirty piece of notebook paper, at the top of which was scribbled “WEAKLY UNIFORM RPT.”
Then, with increased enthusiasm, he said, “See, sir. Can’t nothing be more simple. Just send this here uniform report in to trains each week, telling ’em the sizes what fit the guys in each platoon by line. Hell, I could handle it myself, sir. Just check with the platoon sergeants every week ‘fore the uniform dump.”
Unable to think of a single reason why his proposal wouldn’t work, I said, “Willie, you’re a goddamn genius! Do it! You’re in charge. Use my name freely.”
He did, and the following evening I got a call from my executive officer at company trains.
“Comanche Six, this is Comanche Five. We got some sort of request back here to break out uniforms by subunit and sizes. Think it came from Two Six’s chapter case. Anyway, it’s just impossible to do that—just takes too much time. Six, it’s ‘bout all we can do to get you the right number and a good assortment of sizes. Uh… what’s your guidance on this thing?”
“This is Comanche Six. Be advised that the individual to whom you so callously refer as ‘Two Six’s chapter case’ is my field logistics NCO, and when he speaks it is as if I had spoken. How copy that, Five?”
“This is Comanche Five… uh… Roger, good copy. Wilco.”
“This is Comanche Six. Great! And, by the way, I want you to get my field logistics NCO promoted to Pfc forthwith. Any questions? Over.”
He had none, and overnight Sweet Willie went from company idiot to company idol, loved by all who from that point on wore uniforms that actually fit.
Willie later assumed other logistic responsibilities, accomplishing them without ever missing a beat. He was serving his country and his fellow soldiers well, but more importantly, the war was serving him well. And no one could ever take that away from Willie.