Picture Proof

An unlikely assgnment

I don't know who took this picture, but it brings into perspective the range of activities, duties that I have begun to get accustomed to serving in the National Guard. I suppose one of the NCO's I work with decided it would remind me what happens when you screw up while in the service.


We have a planter. What we have here is the reverse of a Planter. A Planter is a machine that looks like a riding lawn mower with a clamp that picks up a flag with a movable arm to plant each of the flags. You might think it was a tree planter if we had more trees to plant. Someone modified it years ago so we could plant flags in the enormous fields of fallen soldiers. The Planter also picks up the flags after the holiday to be used in future commemorations. It takes a few hours to plant the flags, and it takes one person days to remove them. It's the day after Veteran's Day, and because I screwed up I got the duty. I guess it's better than peeling potatoes, but reflecting on the days of duty to retrieve the flags has been mind-altering and back-breaking.


I wasn't really at fault for what happened. It was one of those days when the sun didn't come out, the skies were gray, and my attitude needed adjusting. At least, that's what the OOD told me. I was in the kitchen with all the other junior enlisted men tasked with preparing breakfast. The doors to the kitchen from the dining room were swinging doors. There were no peepholes allowing one to look if someone was coming in or someone else was coming out. My hands were full of trays of food to serve the upcoming morning meal to dozens of soldiers just waking up from an unencumbered sleep. And, yes, I dropped them all.


I have to say, the food wasn't all that good, so one would have to worry about one tray of food being dropped. Scrambled eggs cooked in oil, waffles with strawberries, and a lot of butter on the oversized tray I was carrying. With my back to it, I approached the swinging doors and initially passed through them. They opened outward towards the dining area. One of the soldiers preparing for his expedited morning meal was walking directly in front of the doors as I began to pass through. What happened next was worthy of a laugh or two, but when a tray drops in a room quietly trying to maintain decorum, the shock and awe of the clatter of spoons, forks, and dishes dropping on a waxed and slick floor is worth raising a hoorah from almost everyone. So, that's what happened.


National Guard soldiers are just as proud of their appearance as the regular army folks. Now, all of the upper-echelon soldiers were sitting as close to the door as they felt appropriate. Close to the doors meant that you were served first and ate first so you could roust all the troops during or after a meal. Some would not even have the opportunity to eat as orders were called from the mouths of the senior troops when they were finished. Higher rank meant you had privileges.


Unfortunately for me, the splatter of the food contacted all of our senior brothers on their uniforms as well as on their boots. I learned early on that the shine on one's boots took days if not months to maintain as the high polish everyone took pride in at all times. Today, I was to learn just how much that meant to them.


I was already standing at attention when two of the NCO's approached my space. Well, space that is reserved for an individual when you are just standing there. Space that is supposed to be yours as you are just a human; not a piece of meat. In my eyes, they were the biggest of all the soldiers that could have approached my space. With glaring eyes and crooked smiles on their faces, I began to shiver in my boots.


The biggest and tallest, and most rotund of the NCOs was in my face. While he had to bend down a lot to do it, we were nose to nose. But he was very softly spoken. He hadn't raised his voice yet, and I began to calm down a little. I should've known better. He whispered, "Outside!"


I remained at attention, but rapidly marched outside to the Grinder area. It is where most of us did calisthenics. I thought that might be what he wanted. It would have been fitting for just an accident in the Mess Hall. I figured I'd be marching and carrying a fifty pound sack on my back for days to come. It would be fitting for my mistake to end up causing me harsh pain.


The second NCO was now in front as I remained at attention on the Grinder. His crooked smile had turned into a somewhat more friendly smile. His eyes were back in his head, and I thought I might just get yelled at, and it would be over. Several of my fellow soldiers had poked their heads out of the doors, and the rest were maintaining a guarded look through the windows. The second NCO told me to look at his boots. I dropped my head and noticed that the scrambled eggs had covered the boots from aft to stern. The oil and butter had already started to work their way into the leather. The shine was diminished. It was almost laughable, but I didn't dare do that. They were not my boots. They belonged to a very large man that I saluted daily as he was my mentor, Mother, and Father all wrapped up into one person. He also whispered, "Name, rank, and serial number!" I shouted all of that information out to him, but I figured he already knew me personally.


"You will remain standing at attention until one of us countermands that order! Is that understood?"


"Yes, sir!" I replied.


While I remained there to await new orders, another soldier brought a backpack and dropped it on the Grinder in front of me. It didn't appear to be heavy, nor was it loaded with rocks to attain the fifty pounds I assumed it would contain. Most of my envisioned punishment was coming true. With the advent of the backpack, what else could it be used for? I awaited further orders.


Both of the NCOs walked up to me, but there was nothing else in their hands. I was getting an inspection while each discussed what they would have to do with me. One suggested that I could "lick their boots," but the other responded by saying that it wouldn't be a proper punishment. Then one of them suggested "Flags". They both smiled and went to consult with the groundskeeper to see if he would agree. All three returned with a couple of extra backpacks.


I heard the order, "About face!" I was prepared for the next orders to "March, left turn, right turn." As I waited, the groundskeeper placed on my shoulders the backpack he had brought to the fracas. Both of the NCOs came into my field of vision once more, and one of them spoke rather deliberately. "You will proceed to the cemetery. For the next day or days it takes to remove all of the Veteran flags, you will do so. Rain or shine, sleep or a lack thereof, you will remove all of the flags. Needless to say, all of the flags will be treated in an honorable manner that is appropriate to their status. None of the flags will touch the ground. All of the flags will be placed in your honorable bag and brought to the groundskeeper for safe storage. Do you understand?"


"Yes, sir!" I replied.


Once the NCOs left the scene, all of the onlookers raised their fists in support of my new workload. They seemed to think it was commendable that I had destroyed the boots. I still don't understand, but I got the upraised thumb and raised fist when they exited the Mess Hall. And as I marched to the cemetery with my backpack(s), I felt a little better.


While the NCOs went back to their quarters to clean their boots, I had a sense of duty to the Army that I hadn't felt before. An honorable task for an otherwise honorable guy. A soldier, if you will. I marched to the cemetery with my head held high. I began the ritual of removing the flags from the burial sites, and one by one, the flags were raised and placed into the backpack. I didn't mind until the weight of the flags began to approach the fifty pounds of rocks that would have otherwise been there. Adding a little bit now and then doesn't seem to be as bad as starting with such a load, but it can be mind-altering and back-breaking. Four days and four nights of duty without so much as a spoonful of scrambled eggs or strawberry waffles soaked in butter was punishment enough. I will be more careful the next time I'm assigned to the Mess Hall for duty.


So, that's my picture while performing my duty to pick up our honored flags at the Veterans' cemetery. In the highest traditions of the military, I'm happy to serve my country. At least I wasn't peeling potatoes!

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