Hillary Clinton Seen At Bass Pro Shops Buying New Sniper Rifle

Enjoyed MASH pre-draft. (Written notes from years ago...)

My military orders were to report to Fort Benning, GA. as a Drill Sergeant until my discharge date July 3,1969. I was uneasy with that after losing many new friends overseas. I knew I just couldn’t look those young boys in the eyes knowing what I was to be preparing them for. By the time my dad (WWII Navy pilot) asked me when I was supposed to report to Fort Benning I was already almost a week overdue. My dad said “Bob, do you realize that means you’re AWOL?” I told my dad that I’d leave in the morning and was on the road before 5:00 AM. I had been trying to avoid the topic that my gut told me was a problem.
But I was also spooked at the thought of being AWOL. It was top-of-mind as the miles amassed on my trip to Georgia. About the time I passed over the Georgia state line, I remembered a letter that I received in Vietnam a few months earlier from a good buddy that returned home and was now stationed at the 3rd Army Headquarters at Ft. McPherson, in Atlanta, GA. I had to drive through Atlanta on my way to Fort Benning, and it was late in the afternoon as I pulled into a parking lot in Atlanta with a phone booth. I called the Base Locator at Fort McPherson, and within just a few minutes a familiar voice greeted me “Good afternoon, this is Specialist Robinson, how may I help you sir?” ME: “Hi Jim, this is Bob Kennedy”. JIM: “Bob Kennedy! You made it back! Where are you”? ME: “I’m in Atlanta”. JIM: “Bob, I’M IN ATLANTA!” ME: “Jim, I called you”, knowing that it would sink in that I knew where he was. JIM: “What can I do for you Bob?” ME: “Jim I’m supposed to be at Fort Benning pushing troops (military talk for Drill Sergeant), and I just don’t have the heart to look the greenies in the eyes, knowing what I’d be training them for. Do you know of anything at Fort McPherson that I could fit into?” JIM: “Let me see what I can do.” I was on hold for what must’ve been about 10 minutes and then a loud gruff voice pierced the silence; “This is Command Sergeant Major Booton, what can I do for you son?” ME: “Command Sergeant Major, I’m on my way to Fort Benning to push troops. I really don’t have the heart to train these young men, knowing where they’ll be going. I just can’t push troops. If you bust me down from E-5 to E-1, put me on permanent latrine duty or KP, I won’t object. I’ll work tirelessly and not complain a peep. I just can’t push troops.” CSM BOOTON: “Son can you be in my office tomorrow at 0800 hours in uniform with your records and orders?” ME: “Command Sergeant Major, if you put Specialist Robinson back on the line to give me directions, I will be there at 0800 hours.” And I was.
CSM Booton greeted me as I handed him my records and orders and followed him into his office. He offered me a seat at his desk opposite him as he peeled into my records. My records were pretty impressive, and I knew it. He’d breeze through a page and then look up at me (as if to question what he was reading). He got through a few pages and stopped cold, looked up at me and said “Son, do you realize that you’re AWOL?” (Thank God I had hours to contemplate an answer to such a question as I was driving south from Michigan) ME: “Command Sergeant Major, I believe that’s just a matter of interpretation.” CSM BOOTON: “A matter of interpretation?” (Now rising onto his feet, and leaning on the desk with both hands, projecting his face closer to mine) “A MATTER OF INTREPRETATION? JUST WHAT DOES YOU BEING AWOL HAVE TO DO WITH A MATTER OF INTREPRETATION?” ME: outwardly calm but squirming like a trapped rat inside: “Somewhere in that packet of forms it should mention that I have an additional 30 days of paid leave between now and the end of my enlistment on July 3rd. I don’t see how adjusting that number of days down to 24 would be so difficult, and then we’ll be even.” CSM BOOTON: Straightening up with his eyes fixed on mine, picked up my records, and began walking slowly to a desk across the room, with eyes fixed on mine all the while. As he set my records on that other desk he said, “Son, this is your desk, I’d suggest that you move into it and start working, you’ll be reporting to me now.”
With those words I became the new “Radar O’Riley” (a character from the popular TV show MASH) of the Third M.P. Group, C.I. (Criminal Investigation) the US Army version of the Navy’s N.C.I.S.. Our area of responsibility included everything west of the Atlantic Ocean to the Mississippi River and from Kentucky south to Key West Florida.
My job, as I understood it, was to keep records, file reports and find issues that affected the efficiency of the Command, and resolve them, to maximize the esprit de corps and effectiveness of the Group. Personally, I don’t think they expected any miracles from a low ranking E-5, but I focused on the big picture as I also struggled with my personal financial challenge to get married. I put my heart and soul into that job. The shortest path to solving some of the Command problems involved me creating Orders by The Commanding Officer of the Third M.P. Group, C.I., and effectuating their dispatch and execution. Admittedly, I focused on issues that were detrimental to efficiency and morale that also angered me, personally. I elected to operate outside of acceptable protocol creating orders From Col. Sandsmark (the commanding officer of the Group) that overruled Company Commanders of the subordinate M.P. Group C.I. Companies at bases within the Command. The problem is that some of those signed orders that I created, were not signed by the Colonel, instead they were Forged by me (the artist) so well that if the Colonel had seen them, he’d have believed that he did sign them. Meanwhile, the junior officers who received them assumed (quite rightly) that they had screwed-up, and I imagined that they were hopeful that the Colonel wouldn’t call them on the carpet. (Of course, they never would be called, because I was the only other person that knew of the orders) Everything went smoothly.
HOWEVER, within a couple of months I got caught by my boss, the Command Sergeant Major. He blew his top and told me in no uncertain terms that if I did it again he’d have me busted down to Buck Private and sent to the brig (jail). I gave him my word that it wouldn’t happen again, as he scowled at me, returning to his desk.
The story didn't end there. The CSM asked me for one of my "off record passes" for the PGA Golf tournament shortly thereafter. I responded that I didn't do them anymore, but after I watched his face redden from his chin to his forehead I said, "Just fuckin' with you, I'll have it ready before lunch."
Col. Sandsmark took me to lunch at the Officers Club and commented that he knew of my "creativity" and was sorry he didn't think of it himself. He also gave me the "re-up" talk and promised that if I did, I would travel with him for my entire enlistment, and he'd continue promoting me on the 2% guidelines as soon as I was eligible during that time. I thanked him, but reminded him that I was a draftee and hungry to find my own path to wherever it led.
I liked that assignment. I've often wondered where all those fine people ended up.

Good question!

Roger that!

Ditto . . .