Memorial Day
The young PFC was at a bank once, and the colonel’s wife, who was a bank teller, got confused with the marks and the dollars and the exchange rate and doubled the young mans pay by accident. The young PFC, being a supply guy, knew he was in the clear, because he hadn't signed for that much money and so the money was his free and clear. In fact, the young PFC was in the habit of not signing for anything because he knew signing for things meant you owned them, but only in the way of worry and not enjoyment, as in you filled the gas tank but never got to drive, and so he knew the way of No Worry was to have other soldiers - Privates and Non-Coms and young Lieutenants, and the occasional Captain, too - to sign for stuff. Of course, in the end, the Karma -that dear Sword of the Lord - came back and smacked him in the ass and he did what most never do - the young PFC actually made E-3 twice, which is twice as much and twice as often as most young soldiers and he'd been given the privilege of giving two weeks pay to the Old Soldiers Home as well as two weeks meditation of a sort to kind of kick back and think about it as he mopped the floors of that old Kraut Kaserne. He spent the next six months trading Class A coats back and forth with young E2s who hadn't gotten the rocker sewn on yet, and in this way, they both passed inspection, because he’d be damned if he was going to take his rocker off. The young PFC was positive and certain that he'd get the rank back, and eventually he did, much to the chagrin of the First Sergeant who wouldn't pin it on him and didn't call formation that day. But anyhow, the marks and the dollars got spent at the Class 6 Supply Store and the young private used ration cards he'd earned giving haircuts. Turns out the Krauts loved Marlboros and Jack Daniels and the young PFC loved the Rad bastards all the more for it and they loved him back, too. And the Italians loved that stuff as well and stocked their restaurants full of whatever he brought in. "Paisan!" they called him and they even let that young man run a tab. See, German taxes are a real bitch and an enterprising young American can move forward a bit in this game because this is what America is all about - low fuckin' overhead. Now, the Turks, didn't much care for all this stuff, they were bastards back then, too. Hell, you might even call them Un-American. Anyhow, this is a Cold War story, not a memory of sacrifice, injury or death, and there are no heroics and no one ever called out for their Mother as they lay dying, but it's the kind of story that happens more often than those other horrible bleak things and that is for all the good. God Bless America. We rock. And hot damn, woe to the old man who has never known the joy of E-T-S.