Previously I attended bus driver school at Fort Benning to get licensed to drive bus. My platoon sergeant, SFC Jones had said that the reason he was sending me was because I was the only one that could probably pass the school. But I suspected that the real reason he was sending me was because brigade was receiving requests to provide an honor guard for military funerals. So, I would tell him exactly how I felt. I would say, “Sarge, you bullshit the Baker and you might get a bun, you bullshit me, and you don’t get none. I ain’t buying your bullshit story that I am the only person that can pass the bus driver school. I smell another extra duty coming down the pipe. Yeah. And it’s a real stinker.” The standard practice was to send the honor guard plus an alternate team and occasionally the band to these military funerals. Thus, the honor guard required transportation in the form of the buses. Whenever just the honor guard and the alternate team were sent to a military funeral, usually only one bus would be dispatched from the transportation motor pool (TMP). But on those few occasions when the band was also sent, two buses would be dispatched from the TMP. My suspicion about the funeral details was correct. Just two weeks after I graduated from the bus driver school, SFC Jones called my name during the morning Muster formation. SFC Jones said, “PFC Masters, please see me after the formation. That is all that I have. Everyone else is dismissed. Fallout and return to your duty areas.” I went and reported to SFC Jones. I said, “Sarge, PFC Masters reports as requested.” SFC Jones replied, “Masters, how is everything?” “I’m fine. But I am sure that you did not ask me to see you just so that you could ask me how everything is, did you? Wait. Do not bother answering that. I can answer that myself. No. You really do not give a flying fiddler’s damn how I am doing. But you had to ask that feel good question because you are about to stick me with something, aren’t you? Sure, you are. Enlighten me.” “Masters, do you trust anybody?” “In God we trust, all others cash. That includes you Sarge. Does that answer your question?” “What about your mother?” “What about my mother? I told you. In God we trust, all others cash. No exceptions. That means none. Nada. No one. Not even my mother.” “Damn! Well, the reason I wanted to see you…” “I knew it! I knew there was a hidden agenda.” “How do you get through life?” “By not trusting shiftless, beady-eyed bastards like you, that’s how.” “Anyway, what I was about to say was that we were tasked with a funeral detail, and I need to send you to drive the bus for it.” “I knew it! I knew all that happy horse shit that you fed me about needing to send somebody to the bus driver school because you had to send someone was all pure bullshit. Grade A, number one, pure bullshit. So, when do I have to leave, and where do I have to go?” “You leave tomorrow, and you have to go to a small town north of Birmingham, Alabama, called Kimberly. Full directions on how to get there will be in a packet at the TMP when you dispatch the bus. That is all. Oh, one more thing. Pvt. Johnson is driving the second bus.” “The second bus?” “Yeah. It seems that whoever died was high ranking. As a result, the band was requested as well. Pvt. Johnson will drive the lead bus and the NCOIC of the entire honor guard will ride on his bus. The honor guard and the alternate team will ride on your bus. Any questions?” “No Sarge. I got it. Johnson drives the brass, and I drive the riff-raff. Got it. Loud and clear. Roger D dodger. Over and out. Sayonara see ya sucker.” “What did you just say?” “Nothing. I got it, Sarge.” The next day, we departed from Fort Benning and took Highway 27 to Phoenix City, Alabama. Once we crossed over the Chattahoochee River, we took Highway 280 to Opelika, Alabama, where we exited onto Interstate 85 W. toward Auburn. We drove on Interstate 85 to Highway 280 N., and then we exited onto Highway 280. When we got close to Birmingham, Alabama, one underpass for Highway 280 was too low for the height of the bus. A sign for that exit stated all vehicles over a certain height had to exit and go around the low underpass. I saw the sign but apparently Pvt. Johnson did not. He kept right on going, and the roof of his bus collided with the underpass just as we started to exit. His bus hit the overpass bridge and made a huge BANG! Since the bus was up at speed, the roof of the bus peeled back like the lid of a can being opened. It made one helluva noise. I cannot imagine how scared the people inside that bus were. I slowed to a stop to watch the spectacle. And everybody in my honor guard jumped up and yelled, “DAMN! Did you see that?!? That guy tore the roof right off that bus. DAMN!” A guy pulled up behind me in a pickup truck and yelled, “HOLY SHIT! Did you see that?” I walked over to the accident scene to find the NCOIC of the honor guard detail. I had to find out what to do. There was no way I could carry everybody on my bus. I could take about half of the band with my current load. But if I left the alternate honor guard team behind, I might be able to take the entire band. The NCOIC would have to make the call because things would be uncomfortable in my bus. The NCOIC elected to go with just the primary honor guard and band and told me to proceed to the funeral. Poor old Johnson. It seemed like someone was always pissing in his Wheaties. He could just never catch a break. And of course, you know, I was not going to let him forget this. Oh, hell no! That just would not be right. What with our friendship and all? Yeah. No. The next time he came into Someplace Else, Chains and I might have to harass him a little. Most definitely. That sounded like a plan. And that was how Johnson drove straight into another exercise in futility.
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