“There’s…moose…in the…shack…kill me!”
The incoming message shot past so quickly I only understood about every third word. While holding the receiver about a foot from my ear due to the screaming coming from the other end, I responded: “Say again.”
The call had come from the guard shack at the front gate of the post ammunition area. There must’ve been some dire emergency but I could not understand what the caller was saying, but I did recognize the voice.
I was five hours into my first tour of duty as Officer of the Guard for Fort Richardson, Alaska. The night had been nothing but routine up until now. The troops under my direction that night were carrying rifles and live ammunition, locked, loaded and ready. That’s right, live ammo—a garrison GI with live ammo, even one assigned to an infantry brigade, is a highly unpredictable commodity at best.
Walking guard on a winter night in Alaska is not anyway near the same as combat, nor is it at the other end of the spectrum of guard duty in the lower 48. I had troops at all the sensitive areas: the ammunition dump, the petroleum areas, the ration storage area and other command critical areas. I’d checked every guard station twice by this time—making sure the guards were responsive, doing their jobs, awake and that good order was being maintained.
Just the thought that one of the guards or I might lose a single round of ammunition conjured up proceedings akin to the Warren Commission or the Watergate investigation, the brevity of either of the two being a much more welcome conclusion.
Diligently I’d inventoried every round of ammunition with the post duty officer prior to mounting the guard, and I planned to do so again and again right up to the end of my tour of duty. The level of pressure on one single lieutenant is extraordinary outside of combat—nobody wanted to foul this up.
I had repeated the importance of what we were doing, but as the hours passed the opportunity for their intentions to waiver grew ever larger. I never had a thought of the (Russian) Bear coming to get us—their prime target would be the Air Force Base next door. Boredom on the fringe was my biggest concern—that and troopers opportunity to think of ways to decrease that boredom.
At roughly 2200, a late night snack had been delivered to the guards walking tours and those awaiting their turn in the barracks. But by 2230, there was exactly zilch to add to the guard log. This was a good thing, I remember thinking to myself. These guys on posts had nothing to do but eat and walk around in the cold—keeping an ever-present, watchful eye out for trouble.
One of the members of my guard that evening was a young nineteen-year-old draftee named Tommy, a Specialist 4th Class, who was coincidentally my platoon’s clerk. As a matter of fact, Tommy was our clerk because of Tommy’s singular ability to type better than anyone else in the platoon. Actually, Tommy was the only man in the platoon who could type, but tonight there were no letters to type or stencils to cut. This night, Tommy would be faced with a very different situation entirely.
Tommy, manning the guard shack at the entrance to the post ammunition dump had a very prestigious job. Tommy was inside while the others were out walking their posts. Sometimes they rode in the ammo dump jeep, but they were outside nonetheless. Oh yah, Tommy would get his turn outside, but for the time being Tommy was happy where he was—not walking around in the snow with a rifle slung over his shoulder. Tommy had expressed his pleasure when I had visited his post earlier—but the call at 2300 had made it clear the status quo had changed.
“There’s… moose… guard… gonna kill…!”
“Say again.” I replied still trying to decipher what he had hollered.
“There’s…guard shack…kill me!” Tommy shouted again, still talking as quick as he had before but maybe even decibels louder this time.
For thirty seconds or so—probably seeming like an eternity to Tommy—I tried my best to settle him down so I could understand. Eventually Tommy realized my problem.
Still shouting but lower this time than the decibel level of a jet engine but now quite a bit slower, Tommy said: “THERE IS A MOOSE IN THE GUARD SHACK AND HE’S GONNA KILL ME!”
Hoping to gain more clarification and unsure of what I was really hearing, I said to Tommy: “Say again. What did you say?” Somewhat redundant and maybe a little bit shocked, I could not believe what I had heard.
“T-h-e-e-e-e-e-e-r-r-r-r-r-e’-s-s-s-s a-a-a-a m-o-o-o-o-o-s-s-s-e i-n-n-n t-h-e g-u-a-a-a-a-a-r-d s-h-a-a-a-a-a-c-k. I-I-I-I-I t-h-i-i-n-n-n-n-n-k h-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e’-s g-o-o-o-o-n-n-a-a-a-a-a-a k-i-i-i-l-l-l-l-l m-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e!”
Still playing Abbott to his Costello or SpongeBob to his Patrick, I came back with, “You’re saying there’s a moose in the guard shack with you? Inside the guard shack? With you?” At this point Tommy was probably thinking he wasn’t going to get any help. He was most likely talking to a moron, but the ranking moron nonetheless.
Again, Tommy says, “Yes, sir. There’s a moose in the guard shack. I know he’s about to kill me. Can I shoot him?”
I had continually stressed how important it was to keep track of ammunition and not shoot it off indiscriminately. I had tried to make it sound as if the GIs’ safety was, to some extent, less important than losing even one round of ammo.
“No! Don’t shoot him!”

*****

Over my career, I dealt with situations like this time and time again. Employees can find the strangest and quirkiest ways of getting into situations that require a degree of skill and leadership to get out of; a talent, that if you don’t get the experience and training just make your task as a leader extraordinary—and at the least very difficult.