Patrick Wallis

     During the Spring of '99, I was a young First Lieutenant with the 320th Topographic Engineering Company, stationed in Hanau, Germany. It was finally my time in the barrel. My task? A rite of passage for junior officers: lead a weapons range and convoy operation without screwing it up.

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     In many ways, the military often felt like an adult version of Scouts—just with bigger stakes, stricter uniforms, and live ammunition. In this sense, planning and executing convoy operations to our range site in Aschaffenberg from Hanau, then running the range qualification course, all felt familiar. Like a graduate version of an Eagle Scout project. Only this time, we were hauling semi-trailers through medieval Germantowns, hoping we didn't destroy anything in the process.

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     "Fuck!" I muttered under my breath to my driver, SGT Bryant. She side-eyed me, asking, "What's wrong, LT?"

     

     "Is this the turn coming up, or is it the next one?" I responded.

 

     "Uhhhh. LT, you're the officer. Just tell me where to get off."

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     I'm sure she was rolling her eyes, but she deserved to. These stupid maps! It was tough to tell if the exit washere or up the road. I was the convoy lead. So, any decision I made would affect everyone else in the platoon who’d set out with me to run the Brigade range qualification courses. We had a two-hour head start on the approximately 1,500 soldiers who would be pouring in from across Germany, including Vilseck, Hanau, and Wildflecken.

Dammit!

 

     "Take the exit, SGT." 

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     "Yes, Sir. You got it."

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     As soon as we'd cleared the exit loop, we knew I'd chosen poorly.

 

     Dammit!

 

     The exit ramp had dropped in elevation, depositing us about 150 meters from an ancient bridge that crossed the Autobahn exit. The problem was that it was only a couple of inches taller than the trailers our semis were hauling.

Dammit!

 

     If I weren't commanding a topographic platoon, the absurdity of being completely lost in a medieval village with such monstrous vehicles wouldn’t be as barbed. But here I was, feeling the sting.

Geez… Why couldn’t I just have a fleet of Humvees instead?

 

     However, the big rigs were necessary to house all the printing presses, paper conditioning equipment, mapstorage, photolithographic, cartographic, and digital map compilation equipment needed to carry out our map-making mission.

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     While we did have inches to spare, the problem was that Standard Operating Procedure, or SOP, was to rollup our camo netting and lash it to the top of the trailers. Unfortunately for us, this made our relative height about three feet too high.

Dammit!

 

     "Pull as close to the bridge as you can, SGT, then stop and turn on your hazards. Then radio to the other drivers that they're gonna have to remove the netting from the top of the trailers."

 

     "Sir, where should I tell them to stow it?"

 

     "Wherever the hell they need to. I don't give a shit as long as the netting makes it to the range," I laughingly replied.

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     The sergeant rolled her eyes. Again, who could blame her? I didn't. It was absurd. All of it. I opened the cab door, stood up on my seat, and started climbing to the top of the rig. I'd opened my Leatherman knife and held it between my teeth like some modern-day pirate as I shimmied my way up to the top of the truck. Before I knew it, I'd run the length of the tall trailer, making sure to cut all the ties securing the rolled-up camo netting.

Ridiculous!

 

     I'd been thisclose to falling off the top the whole time, but somehow I'd avoided crashing to the ground. I balled the netting up as much as I could and made my way back to the front of the vehicle. There, I staged the collected netting on top of the cab. Next, I found a way to slide back down into the cap so that I was standing on the green Naugahyde bench seat. That way, I could shove the netting into the passenger area.

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     Once I'd pushed it all in, I looked behind me to where the convoy had pulled off onto the shoulder. There was just enough room for us all to have exited the Autobahn free and clear. I could see the soldiers assigned to the other three semis repeating the same insane process I'd nearly wrapped up. I wiggled back into my seat and slammed the door shut.

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Dammit!

 

     This was embarrassing. Like in some Sunday morning cartoon strip, I'd found myself pressed up against theglass by the abundance of netting, barely able to breathe or move. I was barely able to roll the window down just enough to get some fresh air.

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     Fifteen minutes later, we got radio confirmation that we were ready to get the convoy back on the road. Finally, we were past the crisis. So, our convoy fired up its engines to head out, and we all managed to make ourway under the old bridge without shearing off the tops of the semi-trailers.

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Whew!

 

     Finally, some good news. But it didn't last long, because as soon as we made it past the bridge, we were plunged into the oldest parts of the city, narrow streets, roundabouts, and all. It was a minor miracle we didn't destroy any of the ancient architecture. And I'm sure I presented an absurd picture to the townspeople wepassed along the way, smooshed against the window like some cartoon character.

 

     We made it. Somehow. I'd sweated through my uniform and was by then marinating in that stew of camo netting. Still, none of the bridges collapsed, none of the trailers were decapitated, and I only lost about half my dignity.

 

     That convoy was one of my first real tests as a junior officer. And like most things in the Army, it was halfserious, half ridiculous, and entirely on me. When we finally pulled into the range site outside Aschaffenburg, I thought the worst was behind us. I was wrong, of course. The real challenge hadn't started yet. The range itself would prove just as improvisational.

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     Once there, we offloaded all our equipment and the whole platoon moved out to start prepping the firing lanes just as we'd rehearsed back at HQ. Everything was going smoothly—until I realized we'd forgotten one critical item: the little nails for windage adjustment. Suppose you're not familiar with weapons training. In that case, there's a little dial affixed to the top of the M16-A2 rifle barrel. You're supposed to use it to counter wind effects by rotating the spring-loaded dial, which adjusts the sightline up and down.

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     Standard procedure was to have at least one nail per firing position — we probably had twenty lanes in this range. We’d shove them into the top of the sandbags used to rest the rifle barrel during firing. My platoon sergeant, Sergeant First Class (SFC) Guess, and I looked at each other, stunned—shocked, really, at our oversight.

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     Dammit!

 

     Of all the things to overlook, it had to be this stupid little metal spike. Where the hell were we going to find nails out here? SFC Guess, who was a former special forces operator, put his arm around my shoulder to pull me in. He turned to whisper so the other soldiers wouldn't hear.

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     "Don't worry about it, sir. I know it seems like we're hosed, but we'll figure it out."

 

     If I could trust anyone, it was SFC Guess. He'd been deployed around the world and couldn't talk about ninety percent of what he'd seen or done because of its classification. On some mission somewhere, he'd been injured. He was now recuperating and getting back into fighting shape during his assignment with our REMF—Rear Echelon Mother Fucking—unit. He spat some dip into the dirt at our feet before expelling a deep, worried sigh. We pivoted our feet and heads in unison. Somehow, in our despair, we happened to look up simultaneously in the same direction. That's when we saw it. Salvation.

 

     I swear, to this day, that old wooden outhouse was wreathed in a heavenly glow. In my memories, I clearly hear the sound of angels singing. The Colonel would be there soon. So, like lunatics, we took off running, our multitools at the ready. And before we knew it, we'd strategically taken out the nails we needed from the old boards holding the shitter together. We took just enough so that it wouldn't fall apart, or at least that's what we thought. We worked in shifts, each of us covered for the other, just in case some soldier came our way. No one did.

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     Sometime near the end of the long day of qualifications, Colonel McCoy, who'd later go on to become a Lieutenant General, approached the range command tent where SFC Guess and I were. On seeing him there, we both jumped from our seats and stood at attention.

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     "Afternoon, Sir!" we declared in unison. "At ease," the Colonel commanded.

     

     We both dropped our salutes, widened our stances, feet shoulder-width apart, then cupped our hands in the small of our backs.

 

     "How may we help you, sir?" I asked.

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     "Boys, I just wanted to stop by and congratulate you on a well-run operation today."

 

     Just then, we heard a loud crack and splintering sound. Then a frantic yell from someone who just wanted to take a dump.

 

     "Jesus H. Christ—this hunk of junk is falling apart!"

 

     SFC Guess and I caught each other's expression just as the Colonel turned his head to see what the ruckus was. It was one of pure terror—we'd both flushed with the fear of god. We could see the Colonel shaking his head from side to side, saying something along the lines of:

 

     "Goddamn German craftsmanship…"

 

     With that, Colonel McCoy was off to collect the necessary details for some needed range upgrades. Both SFC Guess and I turned back towards the other.

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     Holy shit!

 

     Still recovering from our near mortification, our urge to die laughing overwhelmed us instead! Others in the command tent stared at us like we were idiots. This time, their hunch was more on the mark than they'd ever know.

Ridiculous!

 

     Even if it was absurd, we held the line. When it felt like everything was turning into a shambolic mess, we still found a way. I'm no Steven Covey, but what I did learn beyond any doubt was that I certainly didn't have all the answers. I was glad to put my trust in my platoon, just as they were glad to have me as their foil.

 

     Together, we knew more than I ever could.

 

     Together, we stayed upright long enough to see the mission through.