My sergeant rated me average on a performance review.
That meant I would be passed over for promotion.
I wouldn't make S/Sgt and be tempted by a large
reenlistment bonus to reenlist. I would get out and become
a writer. I thought that was courageous of him. That was
tough love. I thanked him for it. I meant it. He was showing
faith in me. I could do it. What if I couldn't? He knew
I would try when I got my ducks in a row. I did, too.
I didn't know if it would come, day after day, and if it did,
would I be able to tell what was wheat and what was chaff?
I would learn. By doing it. Like I learned to install a TACAN.
To rehab a RAPCON. With acid-core solder. Everything was shorted together.
Finally, someone saw A/C on the bill of materials, and said, "What the fuck
does A/C stand for?" A manager had made a cost-saving substitution.
My sergeant was a hard drinker. He once said, "I haven't shit a hard turd
in eleven years." In the field, you live in each other's messkit.