Gas

D Vautier
11/2006

I had a car.  I was a newly arrived “slick-sleeve” (E-1 or E-2) in Germany and I had a car.   Just by luck or providence or fate I had this nice little Opal Cadet with on the column shifting, and I instantly acquired a whole bunch of great new beer friends, many of whose intentions and loyalty could be easily questioned.  Besides some of them were from Flash Platoon.

One of my new friends was a guy named Tom Combs, and he was trouble from the day I met him.  Combs worked in the motorpool.  You usually hang out with members of your own squad or platoon, and not with guys from other platoons, or guys in the motorpool.  Plain bad for morale.

Combs could hot wire cars, a skill that he had well perfected before service, and whenever he wanted to go anywhere, he wouldn't let a little thing like lack of transportation get in the way.  Sometimes he would come to me and say, “Let’s hat up.”  My frequent response was something like “I’m empty”, and he would respond, “You’re not anymore, buddy.  Let's go”

I’m not sure why I ever let him take GI gas from the motorpool and put it in my car.  It only cost 13 cents a gallon and ran rough, but he always made sure that I had a full tank, complements of Uncle Sam.

One evening me and the gang, this mishmash and motley bunch of guys from Sound, Flash, and HQ decided to go to Ratelsdorf, a small town about 40 Ks up north because there was big party going on at the local guesthouse and lots of chicks were supposed to be there.  We drove over to the motor pool and threw a few Jerry cans of gas into the trunk and took off.  The party was kind of a bust because I don’t remember much about it except that I was too blasted to drive home.  However I do remember very well what happened when we got back to post.  It was close to midnight and we each ran into our barracks building to make bed check.  I crashed and was soon sound asleep.

About 2 AM I was awakened by the assistant CQ who said that there were two very large MPs waiting down in the orderly room  to talk to me.  My mind raced.  I went down two flights of stairs about three steps at a time and burst into Combs’ room.  I shouted, “Combs, get those goddamned Jerry cans out of my trunk!  The MPs are here!”  I then went down to the office in my shorts to see the MPs.

MP: Private Vautier.
Me: That’s me.
MP: We have a report that there is contraband in the trunk of your car.
Me: There must be some mistake here.
MP: No, there’s no mistake.  A guard observed you or a friend or yours loading several Government issue Jerry cans of gas into the trunk of your vehicle.  Do you have the keys to your car?  We have to search it.

I explained that my keys were back in the room and I needed to get them, so if they could just wait a minute or so, I would be right back.  When I returned the MPs asked me where the vehicle was so I led them out the front of the building.  Just as we rounded the corner of the building, I caught a fleeting image of somebody carrying two Jerry cans behind the mess hall.

The MPs found nothing in the trunk.