After the holiday season, it always seems to be back to business as usual. That’s true whether you’re in the military or in civilian life. At Fort Lewis, Washington, when I was in command of the 508th Maintenance Detachment, we entered the new year (1987) without missing a beat. For us, it was business as usual. However, that was soon about to change. The deputy commander of the area support group called and asked me to come up to group headquarters to see him. Now, when your rater asks you to come and see him, it usually generally always means two things. First, it means that he probably has something rather important to tell you. Second, it generally means he expects you to drop everything and come right now. That means lickety-split. Double damn quick, for those of you that don’t know what lickety-split means. You know. “To the group headquarters, James. Don’t spare the horses.” (Please note: that last exchange in quotes should be read or spoken with a British accent as if to a chauffeur.) As the preceding exchange implies, I naturally dropped everything and rushed right over to group headquarters. Of course, I must point out that I probably wasn’t holding anything of great import anyway. Nothing earth shattering, so nothing got broken. Dammit. I hate when that happens. Well, actually, no, I don’t. It means there’s less of a mess to clean up. But you know, if a commander is doing his job right, he isn’t doing a whole lot to begin with. He’s more or less commanding and controlling, which is just a fancy way of saying that he is supervising. And I was really good at that. Well, when I got to the deputy group commander’s office, I asked him, “Hey, Sir, what’s going on?” The deputy group commander replied, “Captain Masters, please take a seat. First things first. Captain Masters, do you still have my book, The Defense of Duffer’s Drift?” “No, Sir. I gave that back to you last spring. Don’t you remember? I gave that back right after my ARTEP when I was getting my after-action review ass chewing. You have to remember that, particularly the ass chewing. You were the one giving me the ass chewing.” “Hmmm. I wonder what happened to it. Never mind. Anyway, as I recall that wasn’t an ass chewing, that was merely a counseling session to explain what you could have done differently.” “I see. A counseling session. That’s what you call it. Well, let me tell you. It sure as hell felt like an ass chewing.” “That’s water under the bridge. Moving along at a high rate of speed. We received an inactivation order for your unit today. You will stand down your unit and turn in all MTOE (Modification Table of Organization and Equipment) equipment and all accountable property and close all accounting books for an internal audit prior to July 31 of this year.” “One question, Sir. Just what in the hell am I supposed to do with my guys and myself after I get rid of all of my gear and fold the unit guide-on?” “Your soldiers will be reassigned within the group. You have been assigned to a degree completion program with assignment to the ROTC program at Pacific Lutheran University by Department of the Army. Any questions.” “Well, now that you mention it. Another question came to my mind. Do you happen to know the lyrics to a swan song?” “A swan song? What in the hell kinda shit is that?” “You know. That’s the kinda shit that soldiers sing when their ass is in the wind, and they’ve been sold down-river. It’s a sad song. You know. A swan song. If we were doing a ballet, which of course we’re not, but if we were, the swan song would be the very last dismal song that would be played before the end of the ballet and everyone got kicked the hell out of the auditorium. Cuz that’s kinda what you’re doing to us. You know. Kicking us the hell out of the auditorium, so to speak.” “Now, hold on just a damn minute. You’re being a little bit melodramatic, aren’t you?” “Am I? After all, you are busting up the unit and scattering us to the four winds. Right?” “What was that you called it? A swan song? Hmmm. I’ll keep that in mind. No, I don’t know the got damn lyrics to any damn swan song. Now, get the hell out of my office.” “Geez, Sir. All I asked was a simple question. No need to get huffy.” “Masters, I said out.” “I’m leaving, Sir. No need to kick me in the ass on the way out. Have a nice day Sir.” Yes sir. My soldiers were going to love this bit of good news. The 508th Maintenance Detachment was about to sing its swan song as its soldiers embarked upon an exercise in futility, more commonly known as inactivation.
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