“Rolfsrud! Private Rolfsrud,” the mess sergeant bellowed. I had been in basic training for six weeks in a bewildering routine, which included a dreaded stint as KP in the massive consolidated mess hall. Report at 5 a.m.
Breakfast dishes were being cleaned and stacked in a steamy backroom and my fellow recruits were stumbling through the chaos, harangued by the cook staff who delighted in pushing them.
“Here! Rolfsrud here!” I shouted back to the distant voice somewhere beyond this noisy hell.
It was my savior.
“Report to the chaplain’s office now,” the mess sergeant commanded in softer tones.
Totally befuddled, all I could do was meekly follow the chaplain’s messenger outside and down the street, wondering what ever was going on. “Did somebody die? Was there an accident?” No one knew, of course, and didn’t care. Don’t ask, private.
I dutifully reported to the clerk in the chaplain’s waiting room, abuzz with dozens of draftees and volunteers, minding their own business.
“Rolfsrud reporting,” I said in my best military voice.
“Hmmm.” the clerk looked over his schedule. “Take a seat.”
I did. I found a comfortable spot in the corner of the air-conditioned waiting room. Aah. Missouri sounds like misery, and it had been for the past six weeks at Ft. Leonard Wood. This was wonderful. Bad news will wait, I decided. I had already been forgotten by the busy clerk. I sat there for a half hour. I should have prompted him, but didn’t. I decided to milk it and take on the role of the obedient draftee, doing what he was told and no more.
I sat almost motionless, wondering what misery I was missing back at the mess hall kitchen. The minutes passed deliciously.
I lost all track of time. Four hours? Five?
The chaplain finally noticed me and asked who I was. “I was told to report to the chaplain’s office and wait,” I explained. A stream of apologies came from the neglectful chaplain as he ushered me in to his spacious office. Then he explained that he was just a shirttail relative to me, had seen my name on a roster, and wanted to meet me. I had no idea who he was, but did everything I could to engage him and extend our meeting. We chatted amiably. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do for me.
There wasn’t, of course. He couldn’t override any of the demands of my conscription. He’d already maxed his powers, getting me off KP. I thanked him anyway. He wrote me a pass back to the mess hall. I walked slowly back to my duty.
They were just finishing up when I reported in to the new shift mess sergeant, who pretty much ignored me.
I returned to the barracks, refreshed after my day off, not questioning what had just happened, or bragging to bunkmates.
To this day, I can’t figure out the identity of this fine young southern chaplain. A whirlwind of subsequent activity left him in its wake.
But now I still wonder: Who was that man? I’d like to thank him.