The Court-Martial

[Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967]

Another Jim Borton (Hank of the KRR) tale ....  

(And  yep ~ 'tis a true story)  

 

The Court-Martial

 

     Late Spring, 1970.

     “Hey!  Did ya hear?  Mister Borton’s back!”

     Huh?  I looked at the pledge and asked “What’re you talking about?  He’s only been gone for a month!  How could this be?  What happened?”

      “Oh!  His helicopter got shot down in Viet Nam, and they sent him home!”

     Well, that made no sense.  Jim Borton – “Mister Borton” to the current crop of pledges as he had been to my own pledge class the previous semester, had done the unthinkable – he had enlisted.  Right in the middle of a school semester, no less.  As he’d explained to me just prior to his departure, he was already a member of the California Army National Guard, was tired of driving from San Francisco to Reedley one weekend a month for “drill,” and decided to just get it over with.  So, he transferred to the Army.

     And it was immediately obvious to me that if he indeed had returned, he was BS’ing the pledges.  But what the heck – why not?  After all, that’s what pledges were for!

     So I headed home to the Kappa Phi Delta house.  Now a full Brother, I’d moved in at the end of my first semester at San Francisco State College.  And if Borton really WAS back, I was downright curious to know how and why.  He’d been gone a month; Basic Combat Training was an eight-week course (not counting the so-called “Zero Week”), and I was pretty sure the trainees were not given “go home” leave halfway through.  And Jim had been sent off to Fort Polk, Louisiana just about a month earlier.  So there was no way in hell ol’ Bort had been shot down in Viet Nam.  Nope… some pledges were being BS’d.

     I walked into the frat house and I’ll be danged, there he sat!  Jim Borton, in the flesh!  And of course, not sporting any bandages, splints, or other recuperative aids one might expect after being in a helicopter crash.

     He grinned when he saw me, and barked “Grab a beer, man, and siddown!  What’s goin’ on?”

     I grinned back and shook his hand then accepted the offered libation.

      “I’ll tell ya what’s goin’ on, Bort!   You’ve got the entire twelfth pledge class all agog about you surviving a horrific Huey crash in the Mekong Delta.

      “So, whyn’t you tell me what really happened and howcum you’re back?”

     His grin morphed into a toothy Cheshire Cat copy and his eyes narrowed. 

      “Really?  Good!” he said, chasing that with a hearty laugh.  “Got ‘em!”

      “Yup, you did.  So what happened?  Are you on some sort of emergency leave?  Fer  Gawdsake, you didn’t go and get yerself court-martialed, did you?”

     With another guffaw and he replied “Nope, not quite – but almost!  I really thought I WAS gonna get court-martialed at one point.  Heck, I was even told I was gonna be!”

      “Good Lord, what the hell did you DO?” I asked, now a bit wide-eyed myownself.

      “Wasn’t what I did… it was what I DIDN’T do!  Lemme get another beer, and I’ll tell ya all about it.” 

     And this was his story:

 

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     So I got to Fort Polk.  Damn, but that’s a miserable place!  Anyway, I got there and yeah, it’s supposed to be a nine-week stay.  But that didn’t work out for me.

     The first week is called “Zero Week.”  Just basic bullshit stuff – haircuts, uniforms issued, mail stuff home, indoctrination crap, and check-ups.  So I’d only been there a few days when I got ordered back to the medical facility for a follow-up.

      “Private Borton, how the hell did you get into the Army?”

      “Well, Doc… I was in the Guard, and decided to go active to get it over and done with!”

      “Dammit, Private – don’t you know you got bad knees?” 

      “Well, they do kinda creak and wobble a bit from time to time… yeah, I guess they’re not perfect, but they get me around.”

      “SO!” the doc asked, “did you play football?”

      “Uh…  yeah, Doc.  Junior high, four years of high school, two years of junior college and then varsity at SF State.”

      “Well, Private, your football days are over.  In fact, your Army days are over!  I’m sorry, Son, but your knees are just plumb shot.  What sort of work do you have in mind after college?”

      “Well, Doc, I was raised on the family farm; I reckon I’ll just go back to raising walnuts and grapes.”

      “You might be okay doing that, if you’re going to be driving a tractor mostly.”

      “Yessir.”

     So the doc said that I’d be sent home, but it’d be a while.  Could be a few weeks.  Meanwhile, he’d make sure I was given light duty, NO marching or field exercises. 

     He was true to his word!  The next few weeks I mostly just delivered trucks and Jeeps for the motor pool and did K P.  Both were good duty; driving around in a Jeep all these dumb recruits would see me coming and snap to attention and salute – I’d just salute ‘em back and zoom on by. 

     And K P wasn’t bad at all!  ‘Specially the garbage can duty!  All ya gotta do is hang out back behind the mess hall and empty garbage cans and wash ‘em out.  That was real easy.  Just hurry up and get it done, then just lounge around and if you hear someone coming start bangin’ them cans with a scrub brush ‘til whoever passed on by.

     But that’s where I almost got court-martialed!

     I was out in the garbage pit, takin’ it easy, watching trucks full of provisions pull in.  Then along comes the corporal and barks “Private Borton!  Get over there and unload that truck!”

      “Yessir, Corporal!  Right away”

      “Don’t call me SIR!  Now get over there and get that truck emptied!”

     So I parked my garbage can scrubbing brush and made my way across to the loading dock.  But when I opened up the back of that truck and saw what was inside, I backed right out.

     The corporal saw me and walked over.

      “Private!  Get busy!  We need that thing unloaded now!”

     I looked back inside, then looked at the corporal, and said “Nope.  Sorry, Corporal, but I am not going to unload this truck.”

     That corporal looked at me, then said “Private – you WILL unload that truck!  That’s an ORDER!”

      “Nope.  Ain’t gonna do it.”

     Well, that corporal looked at me like I’d sprouted an extra head, then said, “Private, are you refusing a direct order?”

      “Yessir, I reckon I am.”

      “Private, do you know you can get in ALL sorts of trouble for refusing an order?  And don’t call me SIR!”

      “Yep.  I reckon I can.  But like I said, I’ll do anything but.  I’ll scrub garbage cans until the Second Coming, but I will NOT unload that truck.”

     Why, that corporal – he was a skinny li’l dude – kinda looked like he couldn’t decide whether he was gonna have a tantrum or cry. So he stomped off and I just stood there, kinda stumped and dazed. 

      ‘Bout ten minutes later, I’m still standing there when that li’l corporal comes back with the Lieutenant in tow.

      “There he is, Ell Tee!” he said, pointing a bony finger at my face.  “Right where I left ‘im!  And he ain’t TOUCHED the load in that truck!”

     Well, that lieutenant gave me a funny look, then took a peek inside, and finally said, “Private, were you given an order to unload this truck?”

      “Yessir, Lieutenant, Sir!  I sure was!”

     The looey looked kinda puzzled, then asked, “Well… are ya gonna unload that truck or not?”

      “Nosir, I surely am not,” I said, kinda sorrowful like.

     Well, that there lieutenant now looked surely surprised.

      “Private, don’t you realize how much trouble you can get into for refusing an order?”

      “Yessir.  I reckon I do.  But like I told the corporal here, I’ll do anything else you want.  Scrub garbage cans.  Clean the latrines with a toothbrush.  But Sir, I am NOT going to unload that truck.”

     That lieutenant looked like he’d just been told that Santa Claus was not real.

      “Private!  Do you know that you can be Court-Martialed for refusing a direct order?”

     So all I could do was sigh and tell ‘im I did.  But still, I was not gonna unload that truck.

      “That does it!  Normally, we’d be going to the Company HQ and see the Captain about this, but he’s gone for the day.  So, if you don’t get in there and start unloading that truck RIGHT NOW, we’re gonna go the Major at Battalion Headquarters.  So, what’s it gonna be?”

     I let out a big sigh and said “Let’s go.”

      “Fall in, Private!” and off we went.

     We got to Battalion HQ, and I had to stand at attention outside the major’s office while the lieutenant and corporal talked to him in his office with the door closed.

     After a few minutes, the corporal opened the door and ordered me inside.

     I walked up to the dude’s desk, snapped to attention and saluted.  We do that in the Army, don’tcha know.  So the major returned my salute, then looked me up and down, and eventually just stared at me with a kinda baffled look.

     Finally, he said, “Private, I’m told that you have refused a direct order.  Is this true?”

      “Yessir,” I said.

      “So, you were ordered to unload a truck, and you refuse to do so?”

      “Yessir.”

      “Do you realize you can get into LOTS of trouble for refusing a direct order?  Do you know that you could even be court-martialed?  Are you sure you want to do this, ‘specially since you’re due to be discharged in a few days?”

      “Yessir,” I said, prob’ly sounding as sad as I felt.

     The major just looked at me a bit, then turned to the lieutenant. 

      “Lieutenant, why does this man refuse to obey the order?”

     The lieutenant looked surprised, then turned to the corporal.  “Corporal, why does this man refuse to obey the order?”

     Looking surprised hisownself, the corporal replied, “I dunno, Sir.  I never asked him howcum he wouldn’t do what he was told….”

     The lieutenant turned to the major and said, “Major, we have no idea WHY the private is refusing the order.  Just that he is!”

     So then the major, looking exasperated as all get-out, turned to me and asked:  “So Private!  Just WHY are you refusing the direct order to unload that truck?”

     Well, I took a deep breath, then told him:

      “Sir, I grew up on a ranch in the California Central Valley.  As a farm boy, I worked hard.  I worked hard on the family farm, and off the family farm.  Across the road from our house was an irrigation ditch.  And across that ditch was Harry Buehler’s place.  Harry raised peaches. 

      “From the time I was in junior high school through junior college, I worked summers for ol’ Harry in his packing shed, culling and packing his Corona brand peaches.  And I hated it.

      “So when the corporal ordered me to unload that truck, I went willingly.  But when I opened the tailgate and saw what was in that truck I just lost it.

      “Sir, I joined the Army to get as far away as I can from that life and Harry Buehler’s peaches.  And now a whole truck load of that man’s Gawd-damned peaches done followed me to Fort Polk, Louisiana!  Nossir… I am DONE with Old Man Buehler’s peaches!  One more time; I will take permanent latrine duty, permanent K P with garbage can cleaning duty, hell, I’ll even take Leavenworth.  But I will NOT touch another cursed Harry Buehler Corona peach as long as I live!”      

     Well, I’m here to tell ya… that Major got a look of astonishment on his face.  His eyebrows were up and his jaw dropped and he just stared at me.

     Finally, he closed his mouth.  Then he rubbed his face and eyes, then looked at me, and said “Private.  Get back to K P.  And I’ll see if I can expedite your orders.”

      “Yessir!” I said, saluted the major and the lieutenant, did an about-face and went back to my garbage cans.  Funny thing, but when I got outside, I coulda swore I heard ‘em laughing.  Anyway, the next day my orders were ready and here I am!  And I did not get court-martialed!

     Now, let’s go get some more beer!

 

 

 

 

 

Edited January 29 by Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967

[Seamus McGillicuddy]

My brother was also doing time at Ft Polk in Spring 1970. Part of his warn summer beginning at basic there in LA, followed by AIT/ Medic at Ft Sam Houston in San Antonio and ending with jump school at Ft Benning in GA. He sure was happy to get home!

 

Seamus

 

PS

Hope that Trump and Hegseth rename those “Confederate” installations soon. 

[Forty Rod SASS 3935]

Funny, that subject came up our weekly Marine Corps League breakfast just this morning.

 

If they do keep the new names I'm not sure my son will even exist any longer: he was born in the Army Hospital at Fort Lee, Virginia.

 

My daughter was born at the Army Hospital at Camp Kue (pronounced KOO eee), Okinawa and they changed the name on that one already.