Lieutenant Wells Fargo

I got another extra duty that typifies how Army regulations can sometimes be intolerable. Each month the payroll for the entire base came in and it was necessary to put extra guards on duty before the money could be disbursed the next day. There were not enough MPs for this once-a-month chore so on one particular month I was assigned nine men to do the job of guarding the payroll office over night.

The nine men were raw recruits with little experience in weaponry (and an officer in charge with not much more). Adding to the problem was that orders read for the guards to carry submachine guns with one round in the chamber.

The submachine guns were what were commonly referred to as “grease guns.” The Army had developed them as a quick and cheap means of laying down a lot of fire, but sadly, little accuracy. The weapon was so cheap rumor had it the parts were valued at only $l.98. The butt was a wire handle and the barrel looked like a grease gun, thus the nickname. Because of their construction it was quite possible for them to discharge simply by dropping them on the ground. With a round in the chamber, who knows what ill fate might befall my eight-hour guard duty?

There were other problems. I had to draw 900 rounds of ammunition (100 rounds for each man) so I went to the ammo dump with my orders. I was told by a captain the ammo could not be issued except for combat or training.

Since my job fell under neither category, I had no idea how I was going to fulfill my orders. About then I heard a “Psst, Lieutenant,” from around the corner of the building. It was a corporal who had overheard my conversation with the captain and he said he could get me all the ammo I wanted if I would just bring my jeep around the back the next afternoon.

I followed his instructions and he had the ammo ready for me. I issued the weapons and ammo to the nine recruits and prayed for no accidents. The night went without incident and troops turned in their armament at 8 a.m. the next day when the regular MPs took over.

I loaded the ammo into my jeep and went back to the corporal and asked him where he wanted me to put it.

“Don’t bring it in here, Lieutenant. I’ve taken care of all the paper work and that ammo does not exist!”

This was just like a scene out of M*A*S*H* with Corporal O’Reilly scrounging up material and the trouble it sometimes evoked.

I went back to the battery and my captain told me I couldn’t keep the ammo there and not to take it to my B.O.Q. since that would be a court-martial offense.

What to do? At the suggestion of my first sergeant friend, I gathered a bunch of officers, who were issued .45 caliber hand guns, and we took the contraband to the firing range and shot it all up, all 900 rounds. The ammo was nine millimeter but it fit the .45 cal. pistols.