It has been a while since I visited with you, dear readers. I have argued with myself as to whether I should continue with the tale of Grant and Crystal, or if I should follow the chronology more accurately and introduce Grant's first experimentation outside of his marriage. Since I have titled this as a "history", I suppose we should take things as they come, so to speak.
I don't know whether it has been made clear in the earlier chapters of this saga, but Grant was a member of the Army Military Police. His friends were assigned to other jobs in the military, Bill being a Company Clerk in an infantry outfit, Timmy a Radioman, and Rick serving in an Artillery Battalion. The day came when Grant's outfit was scheduled to participate in a "war game" exercise in North and South Carolina. All three of the others remained behind and promised to keep Crystal company, while Grant defended America against make-believe enemies. Somehow, Grant was not reassured, since keeping Crystal company was not the same as keeping her out of trouble. So, let's let Grant tell his story.
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Riding in the back of an Army "deuce and a half" is no fun on the best of days. Bouncing along East Georgia roads, keeping an eye out for snipers and other make believe bad guys certainly didn't make it any better. As members of the Military Police, my buddies and I were scheduled to be dropped off at key intersections along the convoy route to provide traffic control.
Several members of the platoon had already been posted at major highways in the corridor north of Macon and east of Atlanta, to expedite the movement of infantry and airborne units to the "war zones" in the Carolinas. But now, the two and a half ton vehicle was winding its way along a washed out backroad that did not seem likely to entertain much traffic other than mules and cattle. Our platoon sergeant was leaning out the window of the "shotgun" side of the truck, squinting into the blazing sunlight, searching for markings. Suddenly as the truck rounded a curve there was a T intersection ahead, as the cowpath we were navigating crossed with an even less promising roadway. At this unlikely junction of two dirt paths, the sergeant ordered the driver to stop.
"Hey, Grant," the sergeant yelled. "I sure as hell don't know what the fuckin' Army is thinking, but I swear this is where they want a TCP."
"That's ridiculous, Sarge. There can't possibly be enough traffic here to warrant a traffic control point."
Even as I spoke, I knew it was a losing argument. The men in B platoon called the sergeant "No-Balls" for a reason. If there was any possibility the higher-ups wanted a TCP here, this sergeant would put one here, regardless of common sense.
"Sorry, man", the sergeant said with an ingratiating smirk, "I don't make these decisions. I just carry them out."
"Fine Sarge, How long will I be here?"
"No way to know for sure, but I'll check with the Looey in case there's been some mistake."
"Oh sure," I thought. "Old No-balls is really likely to bother the Lieutenant with this."
So, as the large truck rumbled away, I stowed my gear on the side of the road and assumed a position in the middle of the intersection. After about forty-five minutes of no more activity that that provided by blue jays and the occasional squirrel, I decided to just sit on a stump and wait for...whatever.
Another two hours went by uneventfully, and I had taken to watching the gathering storm clouds as a diversion. As they darkened and became more angry-looking, I began to plan for a very unpleasant afternoon. I started clearing a small area off the roadway where I could possibly pitch a tent, in case the bottom fell out of the sky above me.
