In May, 1967 I found my way through the various repple depos--replacement depots, for you civilians--to Fürth, near Nürnberg, West Germany. I was assigned to a 155mm self-propelled artillery battery, and within a short time took over as a second clerk in the orderly room--main office, also for you civilians--under First Sergeant Douglas Lloyd.
Lloyd had been in the Army for about 24 years, had served in Korea during that conflict. He was an odd-looking man, with a bullet-shaped head, which seemed appropriate. His hair was shaved to the scalp on the sides, which made his ears look prominent. He had a paunch from drinking and large butt from sitting. His most striking feature were his eyes, which looked huge behind his thick, black-rimmed glasses. When I was being looked at during an inspection or when he was just talking to me it felt like an owl was scrutinizing me. We called Sergeant Lloyd Coke Bottles, but never in his presence.
Lloyd was what we called a smoke blower. His temper was for the most part kept in check, but he could suddenly erupt in a volcanic burst of anger that had the tendency to shrivel a man's testicles. First Sergeants were like the hired guns in the Army. A company commander sat in his office and did administrative duties, but a top sergeant was the guy who did all of the yelling and, as was so quaintly put by us G.I.s, , brought down pee on a trooper.
I worked in the orderly room with Lloyd for almost a year and a half. At the time I thought he was the worst boss I'd ever had. I've had several since then, including the current one who seems Coke Bottles' twin in attitude and bellicosity. It's all part of my theory that somewhere, sometime in a prior life I screwed up bad and my karma in this lifetime is to have a series of really rotten bosses.
I digress. One of my duties was mail clerk. In the morning I walked across a parade ground to Battalion HQ to pick up the mail. I dawdled as much as possible in HQ, just so I wouldn't have to come back and deal with Lloyd. Oftentimes I'd get behind on my work. I'd have to come in after the evening meal and finish up, but being in the orderly room doing my work without Sergeant Lloyd was a good thing, even on my own time.
Lloyd was an alcoholic. Part of his morning was, as he put it, "to reconnoiter the area," which meant he went to the NCO club and tossed down a couple. It was hair of the dog. He showed up for work most mornings hung over and took it out on us the rest of the day.
In the summer of 1968 our unit was sent to the 7th Army Training Center, up in the mountains. I was there for 45 days, but Lloyd didn't make it so long. The Officer-NCO club was in one building, and because it was the Army and because officers and NCOs weren't to fraternize, it was separated by a partition in the middle. Sergeant Lloyd was drinking, as usual, and wandered into he officer's section. A major was visiting, and had brought his wife. Lloyd, who thought he was charming while he was drinking, insulted her by asking her to dance, and then got belligerent when she refused. The buzz came quickly to us enlisted men. Coke Bottles had been whisked away, back to the main post. He was disciplined, reduced to Master Sergeant.
A First Sergeant and Master Sergeant were the same pay grade, E-8, but the duties were different, and First Sergeant was actually the ranking NCO. The next time I saw Coke Bottles--a very contrite and humbled man by then--he was wearing Master Sergeant chevrons. It must've been the fastest transfer ever, because within a couple of weeks he was on his way to Vietnam. He even stopped by the orderly room to say goodbye. He acted like we were old buddies, telling me how much he'd enjoyed working with me. I was so astonished I couldn't even reply, just mumbling, "Well, good luck, Sergeant Lloyd," knowing I hoped he'd get his fat ass blown off in Vietnam.
That should have been the end of my association with Coke Bottles, but it wasn't. In 1970, enjoying my life as a civilian, I was re-drafted for two weeks to fill a spot in an Army Reserve unit in California. I spent 14 days sitting on a hillside in a tent, typing, while the howitzers blew up the other side of the valley. I was with three of my buddies from my unit in Germany, so in some ways it was a joyful reunion. We were sitting around one night, having a couple of beers, when one of the sergeants mentioned Sergeant Lloyd. I found out that my old First Shirt was an active duty NCO adviser to this Army Reserve unit. The only reason he wasn't there with us on that mountainside at that time was because he'd just had a hemorrhoid operation! Since we were drinking we shot our mouths off, saying, "If Coke Bottles was here we'd frag him in his tent! He'd be sorry to see us guys from Charlie Battery!" I can't remember much about what was actually said, but that sergeant laughed and said he'd pass along the message.
I have a picture in my mind of Sergeant Lloyd, reporting back for duty after his operation, sitting on a hemorrhoid doughnut in his chair, having that sergeant from the reserve unit tell him, "I met some of your guys from Germany," giving him our names. "They said they wanted to blow your hemorrhoids off with a hand grenade."
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