Turning Tent Pegs Into Lobster Tails

To properly function, every military unit needs a Scrounger.

This isn’t a position that is identified in any official roster, but the Scrounger is essential.  He (there may now be shes) serves as the Supply Sergeant when the Supply Sergeant can’t supply.

Ours was Spec. 5 Mike Pilchuck.  He was king of the circular deal.  Where he traded something to Mr. A, who had something Mr. B wanted, so that he could get what he wanted from Mr. C, and Pilchuck would end up with what he needed.

After the war, Pilchuck became very successful in New Jersey real estate.  No surprise.

As he once explained, “The secret to any deal is not what you want, it’s finding out what the other guy wants more.”  That would be a good general business mantra.

The Company CO, and the First Sergeant were aware of both the necessity and activities of Specialist Pilchuck.  In fact, if you looked carefully at the company roster, you would find his name, and no duty assignment listed. 

In addition to the usual acquisition of Poncho Liners, and Boonie Hats, Pilchuck did some truly magnificent “midnight supply” scores.

There was the case of T-Bone Steaks , intended for the Officer’s Club, which one night fell off the truck behind our hooch.  And, most brilliant of all, the case of frozen South African lobster tails.  These were addressed, with a “RUSH” sticker, to the General’s Mess, but somehow failed to ask directions and ended up one midnight in the kitchen of our mess hall. 

With the aid of our mess sergeant, a huge GI pot of boiling water, and a half gallon can of US Army butter, about 25 of us got to work and helped hide the evidence, so those misguided crustaceans did not get caught and punished for going AWOL from their assigned duty station.

The night before the day Pilchuck was DROS (Date of Return from Over Seas), he passed the word, “Everyone be at the hooch at 4 o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”  (You could tell he was a Short Timer because he said, “4 o’clock”, not 1600 hours.  If he’d been talking to officers, he would probably have said, “When Mickey’s big hand is on 12, and his little hand is on 4.) Those of us who tried to plead duty were shushed as he said, “I’ve got that covered.  Be here.”

We were milling around the company street at the appointed hour, but no Pilchuck.  Lots of questions and shrugs, and we noticed that even the CO and the First Sergeant were in the group—thus no worries about duty assignments.

At about five after, we heard two things, the unmistakable sound of a Huey flaring in, and a jeep roaring up and sliding to a halt.  Not only was Pilchuck in the jeep, he had a driver. He jumped down and rushed into the middle of the road and began signaling the helicopter in.  It had a sling load beneath it, but that’s all we could tell.  The pilot skillfully settled the load onto the street, and Pilchuk saluted him and unhooked the net—the Huey then pulled off and away, as the net fell from the load.

There sat an entire pallet load, 4 feet x 4 feet x 4 feet, of cases of Budweiser beer.

Without a word, Pilchuck sprang back into the jeep, stood up and waved to the troops, saluted the CO, and gave a general Middle-Finger Salute to Vietnam. The jeep roared off.  We never saw him again.

We began to do our part of transporting the Bud into the hooch.

As the Army would put it:  It was several days before we were again an effective fighting force.