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The Commander responded he couldn’t allow such a sporting event. We would need a professional referee, and a fight ring. We didn’t have that. I was obviously disappointed. We continued to play cards. Then Sergeant B. piped up, “I don’t need the Captain’s permission to rip your arms off and beat you with them. Your little D.C. butt is mine”. I noticed he now had three guys holding him back. I was impressed that he’d done his home-work learning my hometown, and was gifted in his description of my fate. I informed the Commander somebody needed to tell Sergeant B. we weren’t allowed to fight.

The Captain glanced at the First Sergeant, TOP then nodded to somebody and Sergeant B. left with the help of four guys dragging him out of the club. I thought that went well but was disappointed that I couldn’t make my mark in the battery with a boxing match. Even if I lost, most guys would have respected me for trying. I was aware that many had witnessed this scene, and felt no embarrassment for my part in it. There were others present who felt a need to teach me a lesson.

My third day in Bravo, still getting to know my way around, I found a grenade on my bed with a note “There’s more where this came from”. I of course took this to the BC. He was in his office with the First Sgt. and the assistant XO. I handed the grenade and note to the Lt., explaining that I’d found this threat on my bed and was not impressed. The Lt. then asked who might find reason to threaten me. Could Sgt. B have been involved because I had a dispute with him? I answered that Sgt. B. was the last person I would suspect to be involved, though they might ask him and look at his handwriting. He was a man of action who simply wanted to kick my butt, and was far from the first to have that desire.

No, they should be looking for a little mealy-mouthed cowardly mother-f_ _ker. That’s who they should keep their eyes peeled for. The AXO then repeated my description of the person they should be looking for, and I confirmed it. The BC then asked the nature of my dispute with the Sergeant.

I explained my disbelief that a combat unit would have some fraternity initiation rite, and I’d asked for time to check with him about it because he’d think I was playing around with the guys too much if he saw it happen. He answered with some vexation that he’d also had problems with this rite; however, he’d allowed it to continue because it posed no problem. He would reconsider this rite now. I told him I had no problem myself, other than it being childish, but was simply following his instructions.

A couple days later, Sgt. B. caught up with me in the battery area and asked to speak with me. I stopped and inquired what was on his mind? There was a brief pleasant conversation even though I was struggling with the visual image left by our last meeting. He apologized for his belligerence the other night. I told him I wasn’t perfect either and looked forward to working with him. He explained he had nothing to do with the grenade. I told him that I had expressed to the Captain, confidence that it wasn’t his style. I also requested a little time, and he could then throw me into a mud puddle. A few weeks later, after a fresh rain, I told him I was ready. He gathered up a few guys and they dunked me. Sgt. B. then told me I took all the fun out of the occasion. We always maintained a good professional relationship after that. A couple months later, after he had re-turned home, I had an informant tell me it was the AXO who had planted the grenade. I guess he wanted to clear the air.

During that first week, I settled into working on my problem areas by asking the NCOs how I could be of most assistance to them. In each case I took over some paperwork tasks normally accomplished by them. I quickly found there was no real problem in the mess hall, they had suffered some pilfering of food stuffs by our allies on occasion, but had been successful in thwarting further loss. The mess Sergeant was diligent and creative in responding to the needs of the battery personnel.

The motor pool was where I would spend most of my time. Every piece of equipment in the battery had been at war for over four years and was showing signs of age, battle fatigue, and scars. In addition, the normal supply channels had broken down. My new supply clerk was working hard filling new requisition forms for all kinds of needed parts, accessories, and tools necessary for even minimal proper functioning of the weapon systems, transportation requirements, power, and water needs of our battery. The parts problems had migrated to the mechanics in the form of a morale problem.