We were inspecting several lots of grenades. While everyone was concentrating on the task at hand, I held up a spare pin and asked, “Has anyone seen my grenade?”
I didn’t enlist in the Army — I was drafted. So I wasn’t going to make life easy for anyone. During my physical, the doctor asked softly, “Can you read the letters on the wall?”
“What letters?” I answered slyly.
“Good,” said the doctor. “You passed the hearing test.”
Our drill instructor was at the end of his rope: An airman’s ineptitude was driving him crazy. Getting in the airman’s face, he demanded, “Whoever told you to join the Air Force?!”
Snapping to attention, the airman proclaimed, “The Navy recruiter, Sir.”
—James Hetlinger, Webb City, Missouri
Pointing to a pan of chicken wings and legs disguised in the classic mess-hall manner, a young airman asked the mess sergeant, “What’s for chow?”
“Air Force chicken,” replied the sergeant. “You want wings or landing gear?”
Having helped prepare the annual budget for my unit of the Seventh Army Special Troops in Heidelberg, Germany, I took the report to the office of the adjutant, who signs all official papers. The adjutant was not in, but his assistant, a young lieutenant, was.
He gasped as I handed him the huge sheaf of charts, figures and explanations. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asked.
“You have to sign it, sir.”
“Thank goodness,” he said, sighing with relief. “I thought I had to read it.”
The topic of the day at Army Airborne School was what you should do if your parachute malfunctions. We had just gotten to the part about reserve parachutes when another student raised his hand.
“If the main parachute malfunctions,” he asked, “how long do we have to deploy the reserve?”
Looking the trooper square in the face, the instructor replied, “The rest of your life.”