The Depths of Learning, an Unlikely Mentor

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

The mystery of knowledge

     He told me to go exchange a bad carburetor for a rebuilt one. Whenever he spoke, he had a tinge of anger in his voice, like, maybe, he’d had a fight with his wife before he left home. I’d been in the army nearly a year and a half and another year and a half to go. Most of my friends who’d been drafted, when I went in, were already home, back on the streets. Not me, stupid, I enlisted.

     I’d already been to Vietnam, as an artilleryman, and I’d had my fill of war, war games, and time in the field. Once back at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, they assigned me to the motor pool. It was November and freezing in the garage, I wanted out. Besides, I hated mechanic work, and what was worse, I wasn’t trained as a mechanic. That’s the thing about the military. They put you wherever they want you.

     I had to figure out how to weasel my way into an office job, where it was warm, clean, and free of grease. The staff sergeant directly responsible for the mechanics was a maniac, who rarely smiled, and yelled in your face for screwing up. His name was Craven, whom the guys had nicknamed, “Ravin’ Cravin.”

     The warrant officer in charge of the motor pool, Kelly Kanode, was a lifer, at least twenty-years behind him. “Ravin’ Cravin,” and five mechanics reported to Kanode, who was responsible for the overall administration of the place. I could see right off it wasn’t going to be easy moving from the garage stalls to the main office, a busy place, where drivers came in each morning to check-out a vehicle and log the correct information in to a book and follow the same process at the end of the day.

     Overall, the office area, which looked out over the garage, was a mess, logbooks scattered over a desk and requisition requests stacked everywhere. I once suggested to Mr. Kanode he get a clerk, hint, hint. He barked that he’d once had a clerk, but the guy was useless, so he handled everything himself.

     So, one day, while Kanode and Cravin were out, I started organizing the office, placing the logbooks in a shelf where they belonged. I stacked the various requisitions, by date, in piles, according to the request. When I was done, the place looked a whole lot better than before I started.

     Kanode noticed it right away. He called out to me and asked me what was going on, I told him, every time a driver returned from a run, the mechanics had to stop work and check to see the driver did everything correctly. It was time consuming. This particular day, I was checking in a driver, and I noticed all the books out of place. I had some free time, so I made sure all the books were up to date and placed them in a shelf, according to the vehicle number. While I was at it, I did a little organizing.

     Cravin fumed. He didn’t want his mechanics wasting time in the office, other than check-out and check-in the drivers. Kanode liked the change and asked me to put more time in the office, until, one day, he told me to stay there. Cravin didn’t like it, but what could he do? “Sorry, Sarge,” I explained, “Mr. Kanode asked me to stay in the office and run things.” 

     I think even Cravin saw that with me in the office, the mechanics could get more done out in the garage. When we needed parts, it was the mechanics who had to stop and drive out to the parts' shop, a mile or so away. Kanode told me that was my job now, picking up whatever the mechanics needed, like the time he sent me to pick up a carburetor, “ASAP.”

     It was late in the day, and I waited in a long line. By the time I reached the counter, I gave the corporal the bad carburetor and asked for good one. He looked back at the empty shelves behind him. “Sorry, private. We’re all out of carburetors.”

     I said, “Corporal, I’ waited an hour in line. I need a carburetor.”

     “No can do, chief. Come back in a few days.”

     I returned to the motor pool and told Mr. Kanode (We addressed warrant officers, as “mister” or “sir”), “They’re all out, sir. He said to come back in a few days.”

     Kanode blew, just like a top of a volcano. I hadn’t seen that kind of fury. He yelled, calling the guys at the parts office every name he could think of. Then he turned on me, telling me I shouldn’t have taken “no” for an answer. There’s no way they ran out of carburetors. “That’s not acceptable. This is the goddamned army.”

     I didn’t say another word. Kanode calmed down, and in a firm but deliberate voice, he said, “You go back there and tell them whatever the hell you want, but I know they have a carburetor there some place.” I’m sure he saw the intimidated look in my eyes. “Look, you make friends with them if you have to, or tell them something they want to hear. Promise them your goddamned paycheck, but when you return, I want to see a carburetor in your hands. You understand?”

     “Yes, sir,” was all I could say, with no idea what to do.

     When I walked up to the parts’ place, there was only one guy in line. They were getting ready to close. The guy at the counter was talking to the corporal behind the counter, like they knew each other. They were laughing, and, I caught the corporal say something about L.A. I remember Mr. Kanode telling me to say whatever I needed to get that new carburetor.

     When I reached the counter, I kind of eased into it, smiling, friendly, keeping the conversation going, telling the corporal I was from L.A. but not wanting to appear I was butting in to a private conversation. The corporal was dubious. He studied me and told me, "Yeah, sure, everybody from California says they’re from L.A."

     “No, really, corporal, I am, from L.A., the Westside, out near Santa Monica.”

     He looks at me and starts asking me questions about Los Angeles, like he’s testing me, asking me sports questions. Before, I know it, we’re talking about home. I tell him my cousins live on the eastside. He says he’s from South-Central, up near Vermont and 160^th Street. I tell him about going to UCLA football games at the Coliseum and parking on people’s front lawns. We laugh about it. He’s an SC fan. We reminisce. Finally, he asks, “Hey, man, why you here, anyway.”

     “Oh, yeah.” I place the old carburetor on the counter. “I came by earlier, and they told me they didn’t have any carburetors left, but my boss, Kanode, a warrant officer, wasn’t going for it. He says we need one, ASAP.”

     He picks up the carburetor and checks it out, turning it over in his hands. “Yeah, looks like it’s for a three-quarter ton, huh?”  he says, not really asking. “Let me see what I can do.” The shelves are still empty, but he heads to the back room. He’s gone a little while. When he returns, he’s carrying a rebuilt carburetor. My heart flips. “Here you go.”

     “Man, thanks.”

     “It’s cool.”

     “If I see you at the EM club, I’ll buy you a beer.”

     When I returned to the motor pool, Mr. Kanode was at his desk. He turned to me. “Where’ve you been?”

     I reminded him. He’d completely forgotten. When he remembered, he said, “So, they did have one, eh? Let that be a lesson to you. Never take ‘no’ for an answer.”  

     I worked in the office for Mr. Kanode for the next year-and-a-half. He’d still blow his top every so often, but I never took it personally. Towards the end of winter, it came time for my discharge. Mr. Kanode sat me down, for a man-to-man. He said if I re-enlisted, he’d make sure I’d stay working for him and promised me a promotion. I told him I wanted to go to college. He said he’d guarantee they’d send me to North Carolina State, at Raleigh. The Army would pay for my education. After that, if I still wanted “out,” fine with him, but I should really take time to think about it. No adult, except my parents, had ever talked to me like that.

     He turned back to the work at his desk. I sat at my desk. I could hear the mechanics in the garage banging away at something. I reached down and turned up the heater. Then, I remembered I had guard duty that night, the midnight to three-A.M. shift. There was ice on the ground outside, but in a couple of months, I’d be home, anyway.