Shortly after Vietnam wound down, while serving my country as a young Air Force Security Policeman, I did a stint as the squadron armorer. As many of you know, all firearms were kept locked up in an armory, only to be issued out at the beginning of someone’s duty shift, and returned at the end. Every firearm and each round of ammo had to be accounted for every minute of every day, and that accounting was mostly what I did. At age 19 I was personally responsible for hundreds of firearms and thousands of rounds of ammunition and the fear of Court Martial was instilled in me should even one round of that ammo go missing. Not all that awesome when you think that there were other kids entrusted with the security of far more potent weapons, but still a responsibility not to be taken lightly.
We were a Law Enforcement unit so while we had M16s, our primary sidearms were Model 15 Combat Masterpieces and there were just enough of them in the rack for each of us to have one. Now, I’m truly sorry if this ruins your image of those steely-eyed defenders of democracy standing a post in the face of tyranny, but once in a while one of those bored kids working the night shift at a remote entry gate on the far backside of the base would be practicing his quick draw and accidentally drop his weapon, damaging it in some way. Thankfully there were no NDs during my time there. The usual result was a broken rear sight blade and, spoiler alert, this happened quite a bit. Of course, the official story usually went something like “I accidentally struck my holster on the door jam while exiting the gate house”, or some equally inventive fairytale. I’m sure the front office knew exactly what was going on but hey, those sight blades are kinda fragile, right? Regardless, the thing would eventually have to be fixed, and that would entail a trip to the training and maintenance guys at the base range. This, in turn, would entail lots of stressful paperwork and heartburn for the nervous young accountant/armorer (me). It also resulted in an empty hole in the weapons rack while the gun was being repaired.
That was OK when the squadron was short handed, but VERY BAD if we were at full strength. You see, the guy with the broken gun would come back tomorrow, hand me his individually serialized weapons card and, according to regulations, I wasn’t allowed to issue him someone else’s firearm using his card. The armory was subject to frequent snap inspections by a Tech Sergeant in Operations who was a real p r i n c e (at least I think that’s how it’s spelled). I could issue a spare, unassigned weapon on a hand receipt, but definitely not somebody else’s, or risk being written up. If there weren’t any spares . . . well now you understand the title of this post. Being the resourceful GI that I was, I quickly realized that there were a few Model 15s in the rack which, while assigned, were rarely issued. These were guns belonging to the handful of front office types with day jobs who rarely, if ever, went to the range, much less carried a firearm on duty. Included in these, was a pristine, LNIB Combat Masterpiece assigned to the squadron commander, a major, which was never, repeat NEVER issued. Oh my, what a thing of beauty it was. I’m sure the original cosmoline was still in the barrel. Anyway, I knew I couldn’t issue it to someone else, but it occurred to me that I might just be able to use it as a parts donor. If I could swap the brand new rear sight off the major’s gun onto the broken gun, I could send the major’s gun to maintenance for a new sight and the only empty hole in the rack would be the one that never EVER got issued. I didn’t have anywhere near the necessary tools to replace a sight blade and properly stake the windage screw, but I did find an old screwdriver I could use to carefully remove and replace the entire rear sight assembly. Problem solved and no regs violated (that I was aware of).
Fast forward several months and enter the last character in this long saga. While the the squadron commander carried the title of Chief of Security Police, he was simply known as “The Major”. The guy who really ran the show was the Superintendent of Police, a Chief Master Sergeant and crusty old remnant of the brown shoe air corps who was universally known as “The Chief”. A wiser and more squared away NCO never graced the uniform. I admire him to this day, but back then I was just afraid of him, as was everyone else with any sense, including the Major. The Chief wasn’t a particularly large man, but every word he spoke was delivered in a loud, staccato manner reminiscent of a drill instructor addressing a basic recruit. I never heard the man ask a question. Everything he said was a declarative sentence. He came across a little gruff, but what little interaction I had with him was always professional. If he didn’t like you, well that was another story. He had a habit of referring to young airmen who didn’t measure up to his standards as “sh**birds”. He did it often and he did it loudly. I once heard a Lieutenant (a very nice fellow) ask the Chief to please stop calling airmen “sh**birds”, to which the Chief replied in his customary manner, “When they start acting like airmen I’ll call them airman. Until then they’re just sh**birds”.
Cutting to the chase, one day there is a loud knock on my armory door, followed by an equally loud and familiar voice demanding “Airman Bronson” at the top of his voice. The good news was I was still at that point an “airman” and not a “sh**bird”, but the bad news was, it was The Chief, who up until then had never come looking for me in the armory or anywhere else. I opened the door and he immediately thrust a piece of paper under my nose and said (in his customary manner) “Tell me why the Major’s pristine Model 15 Combat Masterpiece has had four broken sights in the last six months when you and I both know it has never, I repeat NEVER, left the armory.” Swallowing the bile rapidly rising in the back of my throat and fighting the urge to run, I reasoned that honesty was the best policy and blurted out my confession, complete with gestures and regulations and catch 22s. He slowly leaned in, squinted and looked me in the eye as if he could read my mind. Heck, the man probably could. His voice now slightly lower, he said “Say that again”, to which I replied the first thing that popped into my mind: “Chief, it was either that or issue some sh**bird the Major’s pristine Model 15 Combat Masterpiece”. He paused a split second, raising one eyebrow ever so slightly, then snapped upright, turned on the heel of his immaculately polished low quarters and strode away. As he did, he shook his head and uttered one more word, which he made sound like two “Out Standing”. I’m pretty sure I saw him smiling as he turned the corner to his office, and I never heard another word about the Major’s gun.
As the Superintendent of Police, the Chief was required to endorse all of my Airman Performance Reports while I was stationed at that base. In each and every one of them he wrote that I was the most outstanding young airman he’d ever supervised in his 30 plus years of military service. I kept them all and I’m as proud of them as any award, medal, promotion or accolade I have ever received.
Just thought you might get a chuckle out of an old war story
We were a Law Enforcement unit so while we had M16s, our primary sidearms were Model 15 Combat Masterpieces and there were just enough of them in the rack for each of us to have one. Now, I’m truly sorry if this ruins your image of those steely-eyed defenders of democracy standing a post in the face of tyranny, but once in a while one of those bored kids working the night shift at a remote entry gate on the far backside of the base would be practicing his quick draw and accidentally drop his weapon, damaging it in some way. Thankfully there were no NDs during my time there. The usual result was a broken rear sight blade and, spoiler alert, this happened quite a bit. Of course, the official story usually went something like “I accidentally struck my holster on the door jam while exiting the gate house”, or some equally inventive fairytale. I’m sure the front office knew exactly what was going on but hey, those sight blades are kinda fragile, right? Regardless, the thing would eventually have to be fixed, and that would entail a trip to the training and maintenance guys at the base range. This, in turn, would entail lots of stressful paperwork and heartburn for the nervous young accountant/armorer (me). It also resulted in an empty hole in the weapons rack while the gun was being repaired.
That was OK when the squadron was short handed, but VERY BAD if we were at full strength. You see, the guy with the broken gun would come back tomorrow, hand me his individually serialized weapons card and, according to regulations, I wasn’t allowed to issue him someone else’s firearm using his card. The armory was subject to frequent snap inspections by a Tech Sergeant in Operations who was a real p r i n c e (at least I think that’s how it’s spelled). I could issue a spare, unassigned weapon on a hand receipt, but definitely not somebody else’s, or risk being written up. If there weren’t any spares . . . well now you understand the title of this post. Being the resourceful GI that I was, I quickly realized that there were a few Model 15s in the rack which, while assigned, were rarely issued. These were guns belonging to the handful of front office types with day jobs who rarely, if ever, went to the range, much less carried a firearm on duty. Included in these, was a pristine, LNIB Combat Masterpiece assigned to the squadron commander, a major, which was never, repeat NEVER issued. Oh my, what a thing of beauty it was. I’m sure the original cosmoline was still in the barrel. Anyway, I knew I couldn’t issue it to someone else, but it occurred to me that I might just be able to use it as a parts donor. If I could swap the brand new rear sight off the major’s gun onto the broken gun, I could send the major’s gun to maintenance for a new sight and the only empty hole in the rack would be the one that never EVER got issued. I didn’t have anywhere near the necessary tools to replace a sight blade and properly stake the windage screw, but I did find an old screwdriver I could use to carefully remove and replace the entire rear sight assembly. Problem solved and no regs violated (that I was aware of).
Fast forward several months and enter the last character in this long saga. While the the squadron commander carried the title of Chief of Security Police, he was simply known as “The Major”. The guy who really ran the show was the Superintendent of Police, a Chief Master Sergeant and crusty old remnant of the brown shoe air corps who was universally known as “The Chief”. A wiser and more squared away NCO never graced the uniform. I admire him to this day, but back then I was just afraid of him, as was everyone else with any sense, including the Major. The Chief wasn’t a particularly large man, but every word he spoke was delivered in a loud, staccato manner reminiscent of a drill instructor addressing a basic recruit. I never heard the man ask a question. Everything he said was a declarative sentence. He came across a little gruff, but what little interaction I had with him was always professional. If he didn’t like you, well that was another story. He had a habit of referring to young airmen who didn’t measure up to his standards as “sh**birds”. He did it often and he did it loudly. I once heard a Lieutenant (a very nice fellow) ask the Chief to please stop calling airmen “sh**birds”, to which the Chief replied in his customary manner, “When they start acting like airmen I’ll call them airman. Until then they’re just sh**birds”.
Cutting to the chase, one day there is a loud knock on my armory door, followed by an equally loud and familiar voice demanding “Airman Bronson” at the top of his voice. The good news was I was still at that point an “airman” and not a “sh**bird”, but the bad news was, it was The Chief, who up until then had never come looking for me in the armory or anywhere else. I opened the door and he immediately thrust a piece of paper under my nose and said (in his customary manner) “Tell me why the Major’s pristine Model 15 Combat Masterpiece has had four broken sights in the last six months when you and I both know it has never, I repeat NEVER, left the armory.” Swallowing the bile rapidly rising in the back of my throat and fighting the urge to run, I reasoned that honesty was the best policy and blurted out my confession, complete with gestures and regulations and catch 22s. He slowly leaned in, squinted and looked me in the eye as if he could read my mind. Heck, the man probably could. His voice now slightly lower, he said “Say that again”, to which I replied the first thing that popped into my mind: “Chief, it was either that or issue some sh**bird the Major’s pristine Model 15 Combat Masterpiece”. He paused a split second, raising one eyebrow ever so slightly, then snapped upright, turned on the heel of his immaculately polished low quarters and strode away. As he did, he shook his head and uttered one more word, which he made sound like two “Out Standing”. I’m pretty sure I saw him smiling as he turned the corner to his office, and I never heard another word about the Major’s gun.
As the Superintendent of Police, the Chief was required to endorse all of my Airman Performance Reports while I was stationed at that base. In each and every one of them he wrote that I was the most outstanding young airman he’d ever supervised in his 30 plus years of military service. I kept them all and I’m as proud of them as any award, medal, promotion or accolade I have ever received.
Just thought you might get a chuckle out of an old war story
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