1: "Hey Bob, I know you aren't really doing that paperwork you're just shamming to avoid working outside."
2: "Bob is a fuckin' shammer."
=====================2: "Bob is a fuckin' shammer."
I still have no idea who that chaplain was, he said he was a relative. Cousin or something. I’ve had no luck in 50 years in finding him. I’ve tried.
I was in Missouri at the time, along with other teenage conscripts and college grads, learning the brutal arts of modern jungle warfare. The only relief that hot summer was the promise of a day of abuse in the consolidated mess hall, taking my turn at kitchen duties for our training unit. (I believe the mess hall was air-conditioned, prompting the mess sergeant to frequently shout at lingering diners, “get out of my mess hall, take your apple with you, get out now,” as others stood waiting in the heat outdoors for their chance at rations.)
No, a day working in the mess hall started at 4 a.m. and finished after dark, a day of misery just to endure. Fortunately it didn’t come up often.
So it was with surprise and relief that I heard the unexpected notice shortly after dealing with mounds of dirty breakfast dishes. “Rolfsrud!” the messenger from headquarters screamed to no one in particular, “Rolfsrud, report to the chaplain’s office!”
That was it. Nothing else. An order from the chaplain’s office takes priority over the grease pit. Nobody would have any idea what the order was about and wouldn’t hint if they knew. Just do it.
So I found myself tossed outside on the sidewalk that July morning walking the half mile to the chaplain’s office, past the manicured lawns of the many bureaucratic entities necessary to mount a ground war.
What could this be about? A death in the family? A tragedy back home? It certainly wasn’t going to be good news. I hadn’t had a lot of that lately, so I decided that whatever this was, the bad news could wait. This was an opportunity.
So when I reported to the chaplain’s assistant clerking the busy front desk, I gave him my name, he sort of mumbled, and I went directly to a comfy chair in the large waiting room. And waited.
I don’t remember what I did those hours in the waiting room. I certainly didn't ask when the chaplain would be ready for me. All I knew was that there were no mess duties, it was air-conditioned and the chair was soft. I was thrilled just to wait, the picture of patience. And this I did. Morning turned to afternoon and I waited. No lunch for me.
No one was looking for me, no one yelled that it was my turn to see one of the many chaplains. It was as if I were invisible in that room with busy troops coming and going, not noticing a slick-sleeve private probably awaiting grief counseling in a dark corner of a large waiting area.
Finally, after an eternity, a kind voice came from one of the office doors. “Are you Rolfsrud? Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were out here. I didn’t think you were coming. I’m sorry you had the wait. Come in to my office,” he said -- respectfully.
I did, still curious about what was up, but not wishing to rush it. The office was spacious, suitable for a sky pilot of some distinction. I think there was an artist drawing of Jesus. With a beard and long hair. I still don’t remember if you salute a chaplain. Don’t remember if I did.
“Nothing important, I just wanted to introduce myself,” he said. “I am Lt. ??????? and I think we are related and I just wanted to get acquainted.”
I was shocked and amazed. I had no idea who this decent officer was, or even why anyone in authority would speak to me with humanity in his voice. I didn't care. I settled in to the soft chair, hoping this pleasant conversation would last for the five weeks I still had to go in this god-forsaken place. It didn’t last of course. We touched on a few things, had little in common. For the life of me, I can’t remember the chaplain's name. I’ve tried, but the shock may have altered my abilities. Don’t even remember if he was on Mom’s or Dad’s side. Anyway, I do remember the last thing he said : “Is there anything else I can do for you?” much like a tech does on a help-line. There wasn’t, of course, unless he could inspire divine intervention to get me the hell out of here.
Frankly, he had already done much more than enough. It was twilight by the time I got back to work at the mess hall, and nobody had missed me. I don't remember if I took the most direct route back to the mess hall. The big gang of soiled and sweating soldiers had dutifully gone through their day of misery completely without my assistance.
I should have felt guilty. I didn’t. After all, I was ordered to go see the chaplain, whoever he was, and as far as I knew, that order had been heaven-sent.
Finally, after an eternity, a kind voice came from one of the office doors. “Are you Rolfsrud? Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were out here. I didn’t think you were coming. I’m sorry you had the wait. Come in to my office,” he said -- respectfully.
I did, still curious about what was up, but not wishing to rush it. The office was spacious, suitable for a sky pilot of some distinction. I think there was an artist drawing of Jesus. With a beard and long hair. I still don’t remember if you salute a chaplain. Don’t remember if I did.
“Nothing important, I just wanted to introduce myself,” he said. “I am Lt. ??????? and I think we are related and I just wanted to get acquainted.”
I was shocked and amazed. I had no idea who this decent officer was, or even why anyone in authority would speak to me with humanity in his voice. I didn't care. I settled in to the soft chair, hoping this pleasant conversation would last for the five weeks I still had to go in this god-forsaken place. It didn’t last of course. We touched on a few things, had little in common. For the life of me, I can’t remember the chaplain's name. I’ve tried, but the shock may have altered my abilities. Don’t even remember if he was on Mom’s or Dad’s side. Anyway, I do remember the last thing he said : “Is there anything else I can do for you?” much like a tech does on a help-line. There wasn’t, of course, unless he could inspire divine intervention to get me the hell out of here.
Frankly, he had already done much more than enough. It was twilight by the time I got back to work at the mess hall, and nobody had missed me. I don't remember if I took the most direct route back to the mess hall. The big gang of soiled and sweating soldiers had dutifully gone through their day of misery completely without my assistance.
I should have felt guilty. I didn’t. After all, I was ordered to go see the chaplain, whoever he was, and as far as I knew, that order had been heaven-sent.
