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OK -- and there's some other stuff we pulled.

At my officer's basic course at Fort McClellan, we "mustangs" messed with the heads of the straight USMA/ROTC commissioned guys with some old Army tricks.

Most of this consisted of sending guys out on fool's errands like:

-Getting a roll of contour line

-Finding a box of grid squares

-Telling guys that, before they fired an M203, they had to do a "boom check" on the launcher

-Convincing guys that they were supposed to wear the patch of their last unit on their right sleeve. We got a few of the straight ROTC guys to wear their "Leadership Excellence" patch -- you're only supposed to wear combat patches on your right sleeve.

This old sea dog has a few of his own. What follows is the first of many:

I spent two years in Viet Nam sailing aboard a 338-foot Army freighter, functionally similar to a Navy LST. Our skipper, CW4 Carter C. James, was an outstanding leader. He expected nothing less than perfection, and got it most of the time. He shaped his crew into a sharp, confident, squared away outfit; and the men loved him for it. His ship handling skills were absolutely superb. I hope that at least once before I die, I will be able to make love to a woman with as much finesse as he routinely displayed in docking, landing and departure maneuvers. As his rotation date neared, a collection was taken up among the men in order to buy him a going away gift. A huge amount of money must have been collected. The day before the formal Change of Command, the men invited
Mr. James into the enlisted mess. The First Sergeant presented him with a small box which he opened revealing a diamond-encrusted wristwatch so gaudy that it would have made a Texas Oilman blush. I caught a momentary look of revulsion on his face, but he quickly recovered and accepted it gracefully and said a few kind words to the crew.

The next day, at the formal Change of Command Ceremony held on the main deck, command was transferred from Mr. James to CW4 Martin J. Hord. Hord was a rather striking contrast to the courtly Mr. James. With the formalities out of the way, he turned and addressed the formation: “I’m a man of few words. You don’t mess with me and I won’t mess with you.” He abruptly walked away, leaving the Chief Mate to dismiss the formation. He was true to his word until payday, when he ordered the crew to dress in starched khakis to report for pay. The officers and senior enlisted men complied because they had families at home to support. The junior enlisted men complied because they spent their monthly income on booze and loose women. Because I had been spending about $10 per month, I had accumulated more than $2,000 in $10 bills (the largest denomination MPC) in a shoebox that I kept in my locker. While everyone else was starching, ironing and polishing, I did my laundry and read my mail. About 2:00pm, the skipper got on the ship’s PA system and summoned me to the wardroom. I sauntered in, wearing a short-sleeved sport shirt, Bermuda shorts and flip-flops. The skipper was dressed in khakis, seated stiffly behind the Officers’ Dining table. Taking note of my casual attire, he asked, “What’s the matter, Myers? You don’t want to
get paid?” Slowly I took the shoe box from behind my back, placed it on his table, opened it and shook it gently so he could see the 200+ $10 bills sitting loosely within.
“I don’t need the money, sir. I have enough here to last me until I get back to the States, so go ahead and take it back up the hill and I’ll get it later.” The skipper’s face turned beet red. Pointing at the pay voucher and speaking through clenched teeth, he commanded “Sign here!” I signed the voucher. He counted out a couple hundred more dollars. I folded the voucher and placed it and the additional cash in my shoebox with a flourish. I then snapped off a salute, performed an about-face, and walked out. Within minutes, the whole crew knew that Hord had been had. The crew never again was ordered to dress in khakis to get paid. I extended my tour of duty and had the pleasure of observing Hord’s departure. One of the officers made a half-hearted attempt to solicit funds for a going-away gift. No one would contribute. No formal Change of Command ceremony was organized for him. He departed in obscurity, leaving behind a farewell letter on the crew’s bulletin board.
That letter quickly found its way into a urinal in the forward head where it remained until it disintegrated into pieces small enough to be flushed into the South China Sea.