Field Commission 5

All of Monday is shot as I listen to the platoon's stories of the big rumble. Not that it really matters. By now paper is up to date. And as far as them, there's little more than rotational target practise and PT sessions. Target they like; PT they hate, even though it's only two 40 minute sessions per week.
So what exactly is my job to them? Remember the Captain? Same, they're too macho to go to the counsellors so they bend my ear.
And yet who am I to be answering all this stuff? Come on, it's not like I'm the poster girl for sanity or social skills. But gradually I realize what I'm doing. Almost everything has a parallel to things in the novellas I read as a techie. So I just base my advice on what happened in the novella and it sort of works. Nothing works for real in the army, never has, never will. But my advice keeps the wolf away from their door and that's all they expect, or care about.
I don't want my sister officers to get resentful over my sparkling up to date paper, so I devise a strategy. Never put anything in a desk drawer anymore, leave it all on top, looks horrendous.
As I observe others carefully, I can spot two others doing the same. Three phony paper stacks, rest are real. But we all look equal and that's what counts.
Gradually I realize nothing matters. Yes I get less money, but make more and it's mostly taxed away anyhow.
My life slides into a pleasant little routine, not a lot different than before. Real work is 5 hours a week, 5 mornings of one hour each. Resta my time, it's all social.
The Captain walks by, "gotta admire you, look at that terrible desk, but you never get ruffled over it. Some of the girls lie awake, worry over paper."
"Surely there are more fun things to worry over."
She laughs and I join in.

I arrive about 15 minutes early for the Ulm meeting. The Major in charge eyes me curiously, "your CO says you command all the draftees in Black Watch. How is that working out?"
"Ma'am it would be a lie to say smoothly. Nothing in the army is smooth. But no worse than any of the other officers."
"May I make a suggestion?"
"Certainly ma'am."
"Say little or nothing for the first three sessions."
I'm already starting to catch on.
"You see, talk that way, the rest will hate you. But listen, learn their problems. After 3 meetings, you and I will talk, decide where to go."
I nod.
"When I was younger, had draftees, same experience as you. But if I ever try to say that, they just groan, tell me I'm out of date, out of touch, it's all different now. Well, abandon hope all you who enter in."
I laugh, Dante always draws a laugh, and she joins in.
A Prussian Guardsman upon a parade square would be proud of me. Takes that much iron discipline to keep a straight face. As my insides convulse with the desire to burst out laughing, my stern upbringing comes to the fore. Think back to dealing with the parents and paste on the wooden face.
I see the wisdom of the Major's injunction against my free speech. Quite frankly I would not trust myself to speak.
Gradually it starts to change. The dirty nasty tricks the draftees play on these officers acquire a sameness, a pattern.
And now I see the real problem. It simply is not the fault of these outraged junior officers. In each case, it is the fault of the CO, for lousy selection.
See my CO chose me as being most likely to cope. These were chosen as a punishment detail, for troublemakers.
To change anything means changing the attitude of the senior officers. Meaning good luck, hafta wait til that generation retires.
As we exit, Maj sends me a signal to linger, "sooo, watched your eyes, you scoped it first time."
I pause, uncertain how open to be.
"Please I'd appreciate your take."
"Ma'am no blame attaches to anyone in this room. They are simply unsuitable. Any blame would belong to those who actually chose them."
She gives me a hug, "you're wise, now you see my problem. Same time next month."
I'm too uptight to want to shop, yet in no rush to get back. Lotsa time for the short train hop before supper. I adjourn to a cafe and order an Italian soda, ponder.
Yes, mine give me trouble and lots of it. But that is rambunctious young people. Absolutely nothing is personal, no dirty tricks pulled on me. Mine give me not one iota more trouble than the regulars give their officers, with their various drunken hijinks.
By anyone's reckoning my tour so far is a success. I have their respect.
Upon my return, I spot Parvana, "Parvana, tell the platoon we're all going to the bar after supper. I'm buying three rounds for everyone. After that, on their own, if they want to stay."
She looks at me oddly, "you feeling ok?"
"Never better, just tell them."
She and I are the only ones who leave after 3.
As we walk back together she asks, "meeting ok?"
"Oh you bet."
"You see in a remarkably good mood."
"Yeah guess so."
"Anything unusual happen?"
"Got to see the world through the eyes of others."
"You've changed, you really have. At first when you became an officer, all doom and gloom, pi**ing and moaning. Now you like the gig. So career officer?"
"Likely."
"Tell you a secret, if you don't pass it on."
"Parvana, I swear on a stack of Bibles."
"Ain't stopping when my hitch is up. Far too profitable and fun to quit."
"My! You've changed too!"
"Yep."
I'm unsurprised to hear no one got into any trouble. See now I know the difference. In the Herrlingen bar they are treated as "our gallant American allies, here to help protect us from the evil neoSoviet Empire". In the Ulm beer hall, they are treated as Yankee po' whites. Bit of a twist in Ulm, see the Blacks get sympathy from the Germans, just don't get the disrespect. But any whites, viewed as absolute lowlifes for choosing a career like that.
Same parallel as the committee meeting. Give respect, most times you get it back. Give disrespect, you get it back, sometimes overt, sometimes covert, but always there.
The Capt chugs along, obviously hung over, "I ah learned something last night. See I make more money than you, have less people, I could afford to buy a couple rounds. Seems to work for you."
Well, touching or what?
"I don't believe it, even seeing it with my own eyes. You got draftees and they still like you."
"Take away labels, we're all just people."
"Yeah guess so. So, how'd you pick army?"
"Too short for Navy, eyes subpar for Air Force, too lacking in body mass index for Marines."
She laughs, "yeah I hear you. As if anyone with an ounce of sanity would choose army. I was promised glorious adventure. Instead it's all Admin. What a bunch of lying b***ards!"
We both laugh.
"Still," she grins, "least these people, easy to collect the bill end of the month."