LETTER from PARIS: Deficit Spending Saved The Day…And Yours Truly

LETTER from PARIS: Deficit Spending Saved The Day… And Yours Truly

By John Sherman Part Deux

This is a recall—or the best I can make of it—of two years in the Army in France. Lyndon Johnson was president. I confess adding a pinch or two of artistry to thicken the tale.

Spec. 4 Robert Johnson, who was drafted during the Korean conflict, was sent, in pity, by personnel, to dig me out of a deep inventory hole of my own making. Page by page, we went through the Table of Organization and Equipment, a list of every item assigned to the 29th Base Post Office, my unit outside Orleans, France.

We matched up what was missing from the long inventory I had unwittingly signed for—-bilked by a sergeant who flew home the day after the turnover. “Lieutenant, you’re sucking bad,” Robert told me at one point. “I’ll do the best I can.”

My high hopes began to dull. It was going to take some very clever moves to bring me up to par—with no losses or overages. Robert recounted blowing up two thousand sheets on Alaska’s tundra to deal with overages. It was heartening. There were stories about burying trucks.

The only deal we had was for him to let me know the nature of his sub rosa negotiations. Right.

He first approached the Polish Guard, the gypsies of Orleans. They were largely refugees from the war, hired by the army to guard posts and prisons. They were billeted just beyond our perimeter; they wore strange uniforms. Their French was better than their English—-except when bartering.

With no available overages, we had to pick something of value to show we were players. Items the Poles could unload easily.

We settled on sheets (Robert’s specialty); they were easily sold on “the economy”—-the army’s term for anywhere beyond its walls. The Poles had particularly good connections with the French.

Apparently, they even had a market for atropine syrettes in Paris. In case of a gas attack, you injected the spring-loaded antidote into your thigh. I figured we were safe from invasion until I mustered out. They took our entire lot. All I could think of was selling them as drugs.

We got back truck tires. We traded pup tents to an infantry company next door. We got back toilets. And on it went.

A friend of mine from Com Z headquarters called one morning to warn of a full inspection of the post office that afternoon. The word was out and there was a general scramble to clean, polish, change uniforms, to look busy and alert for the “surprise” visit from an old colonel. (Orleans was known as the repository for officers the army was mustering out. We had more than our share of “has-beens,” alcoholics and those who didn’t want to believe they were completely expendable.)

By arrangement, Robert and I set a few men to loading our overages onto a deuce and a half truck. The driver, a corporal named Shotzow from a Pennsylvania coal mining town, was ordered to drive around the city. He would call in every half hour to see when we could end the charade.

I pulled myself to full attention as the colonel approached to inspect my corner of the world. I was ready for a court-martial, or at least a stern reprimand. I walked him around the floor, covered with sorting tables and stamping machines. It didn’t take long to realize that the old infantry officer didn’t give a rat’s ass about a dinky post office. Shotzow was told to come back.

Some three months later, another warning of a full inspection was received.

I had asked Robert for infrequent reports on his mission. Most of them were circumspect. “We’re catching up, sir.” I knew he had negotiated many transactions. We didn’t talk much, but he had my complete trust in everything nefarious.

Somehow, he managed to load up on triple the ammo over our allotment. Ammo, except for firearms, was the most sensitive item in any army inventory. It drew investigations and harsh penalties for imbalances. Following de Gaulle’s order to get out of France, the inspections became more thorough, as all our inventories were being slowly shipped to Germany.

Shotzow got skittish about making another round trip, confronting us with a very dark dilemma. I was never considered for my creativity in the military, but I finally came up with an unusual plan.

Two days later I ordered all our privates into two trucks and headed to the battalion’s firing range. We only had two pistols; I formed a line behind each. Each man was ordered to fire forty rounds of powerful .45 caliber shells. Some quit after twenty. Some went the distance. It took a couple of hours to bring down Thompson’s overload.

Payday, back then, came once a month, obligating each unit to turn out in dress uniform. As one more duty, I would drive to the Finance Office with an armed guard to draw our share. The closest I came to proficiency at any task was riffling through cash.

(A good friend in charge of the vault disliked the loss of two years as much as I did. His therapy was to stick a million dollars in cash into the trunk of a Triumph 4 and drive around the city at night. His ultimate plan was to drive to Geneva and skip to Brazil. He would put the money back and drive home to bed. He now works for the Rand Corporation.)

We formed up at eight in four ranks for inspection. Robert—-the “stumblebum,” “Sherman’s pet”—was missing. I imagined the taunting I would face if he never showed. And the contempt he would continue to suffer.

At one minute to eight, the steel door out of view opened and slammed shut. Measured footsteps sounded. Spec. 4 Robert Johnson appeared, halted, made a perfect right face. Uniform creased, shoes highly polished. His face was pure military.

On his chest were three rows of ribbons, including the Silver Star (just below the Medal of Honor), three Bronze Stars for valor and two Purple Hearts for his wounds. As he approached to take his place in formation, stunned silence. No one had confronted a true hero, a soldier who went far and beyond. And few were unlikely to serve with another.

Oh, and we never did erase all my deficits.