The peace-time army is loaded with wise-guys, who, on occasion, can become thick-headed and dull-witted when it is to their advantage to do so. The art of getting "lost" is an example. I learned about this rather early on during my first active duty tour. I had reported to Fort Snelling Minnesota after completing my eligibility for specialized training (ASTRP) at South Dakota State College. Since I had had a smattering of Army life and discipline in the Reserve at SDSC, I thought I was one of the wise guys. But I had an important lesson to be learned, the art of getting "lost".
Troops always have to be "processed", whatever that may mean, whenever they are transferred from one place to another, and so I spent a bit more than two weeks at Fort Snelling as a "casual", waiting to be assigned to a Basic Training unit. There is always some scut-work to be done on any Army post, someone has to clean the latrines, pick up cigarette butts, paint the rocks, cut the grass, anything the authorities can find to keep the troops busy and out of trouble.
One morning the squawk-box came on in the barracks, the voice saying that the following named men must report to Casual Headquarters at 0800 hours for duty. So those of us who had been called duly reported, wearing our usual fatigues, expecting to be handed brooms, mops, scrub pails, paint pails and brushes, shovels, or something. Instead, the 2nd Lieutenant who met us took a look at us and sent us back to the barracks to change to class A uniforms. He said we would be working in an office, and the prescribed uniform for office work was class A, olive drab with jackets and ties. So we went back to the barracks to change. I was fully intending to comply with the order to report back, but one wise guy was smart enough to have noticed the officer's mistake when he received us, "Hey, that guy never took our names or serial numbers!" Slowly, it began to register with me that this meant I could get "lost" on the way back and spend the rest of the day goofing off. I was already dressed in class A uniform, I had no trouble at all finding the shuttle bus to get downtown, and so spent a pleasant day exploring Nicollet and Hennepin Avenues in downtown Minneapolis.
Learning to get "lost" was a handy thing to know aboard the troop ship homeward bound from Korea in l95l. This was my fourth crossing of the Pacific by troop ship as I had already made a round trip to Japan in l946-47. I was not horribly seasick as I had been on my first trip across, and I felt well and able, happy to be heading home. When the summons came for the troop compartment I was in to pull KP (kitchen duty) I thought I would go ahead and do my duty. On the first day I was assigned to the chow line. This meant serving the food to the men as the line passed the big steam tables. There was always pressure by those in charge, to have the men "take what you want, but eat what you take." If the food got onto the tray, the mess sergeant and his minions would, to put it delicately, encourage you to not throw it into the garbage can. The wise guys, including me, got what little fun there is in pulling KP, by serving something that nobody liked. Boiled beets, for instance. The idea was to hit the tray with the beets no matter how far the poor GI backed away from the line. Too bad for him!
But KP lasts all day, not just when food is being served. I was then assigned to the garbage detail. This meant hauling the huge garbage cans of potato peelings, orange rinds, egg shells, the few remains of the men's trays and the like up out of the bowels of the ship, back to the fan-tail, and dumping the mess over the stern. It was a nasty, hard, dirty job, well worth getting "lost" over. But the worst of it was that I had the exalted rank of Corporal and outranked the Privates and Pfc’s who were also assigned to the garbage work. I thought I would be an example to my "subordinates" and so went to work with a will and some false enthusiasm. The other guys didn't follow my "leadership" at all; they got "lost", and I got stuck with doing everything alone. It is astonishing how little authority a mere corporal can exert when all of the personnel is unattached to a permanent unit. So to protect myself I had to get "lost" too, and let the mess sergeant "volunteer" the first ten men in the next chow line if necessary, but I was not ready to be THE garbage detail for a troop ship carrying 2200 men. Following this affair, I always went to the mess hall with a big crowd, never did anything to be noticed by anyone, and virtually disappeared for the rest of the voyage.
The time I was lost in Tokyo, I must protest, was a case of genuinely not knowing where I was, or how to get back to the G company area. It happened that the 11th Airborne Division was assigned to furnish an Honor Guard, during January only, for the Imperial Palace, the Imperial Hotel (the one designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, since torn down), and the Dai Ichi building where MacArthur's offices were located. How our G company got selected for this honor I don't know, but we were transported by train from our Camp Schimmelpfennig at Sendai to Tokyo and assigned barracks there. The guard duty was easy enough, mostly standing up straight, looking as handsome as possible in pressed class A uniforms, highly polished paratroop jump boots with white nylon laces and a special non-regulation white nylon ascot type tie. We looked sharp!
We had not been in the big city for more than a few days when it was decreed that each of us was to receive a full round of shots. (You know, the kind with a square rusty needle administered by some Pfc who had never done this before.)This full round of shots can consist of four shots in one arm and three in the other, many of which give me raging headaches. I would do nearly anything to avoid these, especially since I had had the full ration three times already in my short time in uniform On the morning of the day of the shots, I was taken along with one of the sergeants to see to some business at one of the guard posts. My sole reason for going along was to drive the jeep back to the company area. There was plenty of time to drive back and take a place in line for the dreaded shots, but I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere and was lost. Genuinely and hopelessly lost, not "lost".
Not being able to read the street signs in Japanese and not seeing anyone on the street who could understand my questions, to say nothing of answering them, I drove around anxiously looking for some land-mark that would give me direction. Nothing. The gas gauge on the jeep crept down much too close to "empty". A gas station in Tokyo? In 1947? When there were virtually no Japanese vehicles running, except a few charcoal-burning trucks? What could I do when I ran out of gas?
In desperation I finally somehow made myself understood to a Japanese policeman enough to get him to get in the jeep with me and point the way to the Imperial Palace, because from there I knew I could find my way back. I hope the poor cop didn't get into trouble for deserting the beat he was walking. So I got back to the G company barracks and they had already finished the shots. The "medics" and their needles had packed up and gone.
But I insist that this time, getting lost was for real. I swear it.
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