December, 1945
The Battalion began to lose personnel at an even greater rate after Thanksgiving, as the Army worked to send as many 85-point men as possible home for discharge before Christmas. Colling was kept engaged with the resulting paperwork, and supervising PX operations, so that he had little time for anything else.
He had used the three-day pass that Major Harris had given as a reward for the successful hosting of the general officers to visit Austria. The weather had been miserable, however, and he had spent much of his time sitting in front of the fire in the ski lodge designated as an Army Recreational Facility, sipping bad Austrian brandy and reading tattered paperbacks that had been left behind by former guests. The place was filled with American soldiers, but aside from some older women who were employed by the hotel, there was no female companionship in evidence. He made two slogging walks in the wet snow to try and view some of the mountain scenery, but gave up after the second attempt badly soaked his one pair of Army dress shoes.
When he came back from Austria, Sergeant Ferguson presented him with his technician fifth class stripes, and told him that Major Harris had followed Colonel Harrington’s advice. The two chevrons with a “T” in a semicircle underneath meant he would draw more pay, and could be addressed as “Corporal.” Ferguson once again reminded him that in the pre-war Army, it would have taken as much as five years for promotion to corporal.
The work by Zinsmann and his crew at the Kummersfeld Luftwaffe field was proceeding well, in spite of the encroaching cold and some light snowfalls. The day after Pearl Harbor Day, however, newly-promoted Major Barretson telephoned from Third Battalion headquarters to ask Colling to come to Kummersfeld to translate so that the major and Zinsmann could discuss a “snafu” that had developed in the construction.
Zinsmann was waiting outside Barretson’s office when Colling arrived. The German did not have time to explain what was happening before they were summoned into the Major’s presence. Colling came to attention and saluted. Barretson off-handedly returned the salute and said, “It seems we have a problem, Corporal. Tell Herr Zinsmann that he will not get paid unless I can get my men under roof before the weather gets any worse.”
“What’s the problem, sir?”
“Herr Zinsmann tells me he cannot get windows for the barracks.”
Zinsmann explained to Colling in German, “All glass in Germany is allocated to the highest priority. It is impossible to find any.”
Colling translated the German’s explanation.
Barretson replied, “Our contract was for completion of the construction before winter set in. I’ve asked everywhere for glass, but nobody has any available. Only officially approved reconstruction can get any. And we’re not officially-approved, as you know.”
“Sir, if you would, let me see if some contacts I have can dig up what you need.”
Zinsmann offered, “We can use boards over the windows if glass is not found.”
Colling did not offer to convey the German’s idea to Barretson, sensing that it would only make the Major angry. “I’ll let you know this afternoon, sir, if we can find some windows.” To Zinsmann, he asked, “Can you give me the measurements of the windows that you will need?”
The German produced a sheet torn from his notepad filled with figures. Colling told him that he would have to make a clearer list for him, then turned back to the Major, “I’ll have Herr Zinsmann give me a list, and I’ll call this afternoon, sir.”
Barretson conceded, but warned Colling he would expect to hear from him no later than that afternoon.
Outside, sitting in the jeep, Zinsmann carefully prepared a list of what was required. Colling read it over and, after asking a few questions for clarification, felt that he understood the German’s cramped writing. He dropped Zinsmann off at the airfield, then drove back to Grabensheim.
Colling explained the problem to Ferguson, who thought for a few minutes, then said, “You know, I know a guy who’s down in Italy with the Quartermasters. I haven’t seen him since we were in Panama together, but he dropped me a couple of letters, and I think I know his outfit. Maybe I can reach him.”
“But can he get any glass, Sarge?”
“Last I heard, he was supplying stuff for building for the Army down there.”
Ferguson searched through the drawers of his desk for some time before he pulled out some well-worn envelopes that had been clipped together. “Here they are, Master Sergeant Anthony Gaetano, 1067th Quartermaster Detachment. He was in Milan. I hope he’s still there.”
After several failed attempts to make the long-distance connection to Italy, Ferguson finally located the 1067th, and after several more static-filled connections punctuated by sudden disconnections, was able to get through to Gaetano. The two men chatted for awhile, and Colling listened to Ferguson’s end of the conversation as the master sergeant reminisced about their prior service together. Ferguson eventually asked Gaetano about the windows, and apparently the Quartermaster Sergeant assured him that Italy was the right place to come for glass. The Italian glass factories had returned to almost 75% of their previous production capacity, and for cash, whatever you wanted was available. Gaetano suggested that Ferguson wire him the sizes and quantity that was needed, and he would have them made up. Only one problem existed. This would be an unofficial transaction, and it was unlikely that he could arrange transportation, especially across Austria and into Germany. Ferguson responded that he would figure out a way to bring the windows to Germany if Gaetano would see that they were manufactured. With promises of a later telephone call to establish the details, Ferguson hung up the phone.
Colling immediately telephoned Barretson to advise him that there was a good chance that windows would be found in Italy. But Major Barretson would have to find a way to have the 61st Division Headquarters in Munich authorize the use of its teletype equipment to send the inventory of windows to the 1067th in Milan. Colling would type out Zinsmann’s list and have it in the Major’s hands by the following morning. Colling didn’t tell Barretson about the lack of transportation, even if the teletyped message could be sent.
Ferguson was tracing a route on a map spread out on his desk when Colling finished typing the list for Major Barretson. Colling looked over his shoulder and asked, “Trying to find a way to get them back here, Sarge?”
“Yeah, but the only sure route over the mountains is by rail. The roads are in real bad shape. I was thinking about sending the Henschels, like we did for the fountain equipment from Frankfurt.”
“Couldn’t the trucks be loaded on a flat-bed railroad car until they got to Milan?”
“If Harrington would authorize it, it’s possible. There ain’t much freight going south these days, and he should be able to get a requisition for train space.”
Another call to Barretson elicited his assurance that Colonel Harrington would sign travel authorizations and a rail requisition for Italy. A preliminary assessment by Ferguson and Colling indicated that two flatbeds would be needed to handle the two Henschels. Because the First Battalion’s vehicles would be used, it would be Ferguson’s responsibility to pick the drivers and others who would go with them. Ferguson reminded Major Barretson that they would also need an authorization to draw additional gasoline that could be traded for diesel fuel. The Major would also have to arrange for Allied Military Marks to be drawn from Finance in a sum sufficient to pay for the windows. Gaetano had provided an estimate that 20,000 Marks would be needed.
The following afternoon, Major Barretson telephoned to let them know that he had been successful in having Division telegraph the list of needed windows to Gaetano at the 1067th. Ferguson called Gaetano and confirmed its receipt. Sergeant Gaetano informed Ferguson that the windows would be ready within two or three days.
Colling asked Ferguson to be allowed to make the trip to Italy, and the sergeant agreed. Colling’s presence would be justified on the grounds that a German translator might be needed, but Ferguson had another plan in mind, and wanted Colling to supervise it.
Ferguson explained that he had asked, and learned, from Gaetano that German beer was a much-sought-after commodity in Italy. Ferguson had calculated that if they were able to load the Henschels with beer purchased in Grabensheim and sell it in Italy, they would make enough to perhaps pay for the windows in Italian Lire, and make something extra on the side. The Allied Military Marks supplied by Major Barretson would be used to pay for the beer.
Colling calculated how many 20-liter barrels of beer that 20,000 Marks would buy, and concluded that even with having to pay for the empty barrels, they would have 250 barrels of beer to sell in Italy. Gaetano had given Ferguson the name of a contact in Milan whom Gaetano had said would give 750 Italian Lire per barrel. With the Lira at four to the Allied Mark, the profit would be more than 100 Marks, or over $10.00, per barrel. Ferguson’s share would be a third, with Colling and the other men splitting the other two-thirds.
Unlike the great majority of men in the occupation forces, Colling had not engaged to any great degree in black marketeering and currency exchange manipulation. He had used his cigarette ration card to buy cigarettes at the PX price of fifty cents a carton, knowing that the same carton would bring up to 200 Allied Marks on the black market in Munich. Rumor had it that a carton of American cigarettes could be sold to the Russians in Berlin for up to 400 Allied Marks.
The Marks could then be exchanged by American soldiers back into dollars, so that a fifty-cent investment would return $20.00. Similar profits could be made with other commodities purchased in the PX, such as candy and other goods. Some members of the occupation forces dealt not only in cigarettes, but also in coffee, sugar and gasoline purloined from Army stores.
Colling had traded his cigarette ration with both Germans and his fellow soldiers, but had not done so with thoughts of large profits. The coffee and sugar he had taken to Frau Bergheim had been obtained by swapping cigarettes with Sergeant Cooley’s cooks, and he had a Leica camera, Zeiss binoculars, and a small radio that had been paid for with packs of Lucky Strikes. All of which meant that Colling was surprised not at the amount of money that Ferguson’s plan would produce, but that he was willing to think in such a way at all. He had not previously given it much thought, but when confronted with this side of Ferguson that he had not seen before, he recognized how much restraint the sergeant had been exercising in not using the large quantity of cigarettes in his possession for his own financial benefit.
He would be sharing about $1600 with the five other men that the master sergeant had selected to make the trip to Italy. Staff Sergeant Gambelli from C Company was to be in charge. His ability to speak Italian would be useful once they reached Milan. Sergeants Harms and Caseman were picked because of their combat experience. Snuffy Smith and a PFC named Cole would drive. Ferguson warned all of them that Italy was a potentially dangerous place. Communist partisans still controlled the northern mountains, and it was only because of the guerrillas’ connections with the Italian railway labor unions that rail travel moved relatively unscathed. Motor vehicle traffic in the Italian Alpine was non-existent. Anyone moving by truck or automobile was certain to be stopped by the partisans, usually robbed and sometimes killed. Even when on the train, Gambelli’s men should expect the occasional pot shot and be prepared to shoot back. Harms would have a BAR to provide extra firepower. Everyone else would carry .45’s and a carbine or an M1.
Colling made arrangements with the best of the local breweries for the beer, and Smith and Cole brought their Henschels at night to be loaded by the brewery workers. Once the loading was complete, Colling locked the trucks’ rear doors and affixed one of the wire seals he had been given by Ferguson to each one. Travel papers had been furnished by Barretson, complete with Colonel Harrington’s own signature. Colling stowed an extra typewriter behind the seat of the truck he would ride in, together with a supply of blank forms, stationery and official rubber stamps, as well as the extra wire seals. All of them wore overcoats, field webbing and helmets, and had their weapons close at hand.
They drove the Henschels to Feldberg, just north of the Austrian border, where two flatbed railway cars awaited them. Before the trucks were driven onto the cars, American MP’s and German customs officers inspected the sealed doors and checked the papers that Staff Sergeant Gambelli presented. The inquiry was superficial and took no more than five minutes. A half-hour later, they were sitting in the cabs of the big trucks, watching the Austrian countryside go by.
Even though they were wrapped in their overcoats, the Alpine cold was penetrating, and at the first stop, Gambelli decided that they would take turns riding the flatbeds with the Henschels. Four men would remain in the single passenger day-coach attached to their train, while one man would stay with each truck. At each stop, they would switch.
Colling drew the second round of riding with the trucks, and he had become stiff with cold when he saw with relief that they were drawing into a station close to the Italian border. He was looking forward to a steaming cup of anything hot as he climbed down the short ladder from the flatbed car and dropped to the ground. They had stopped some distance from the station, which was barely visible through a haze that hung whitely around them. As he walked towards the passenger car, he noticed a military truck of unfamiliar design parked across the tracks. It was painted a different shade of olive drab, unlike those of the German army. As he was trying to make out its unit markings, he realized that it was British, and wondered why it was so far from the railway depot and any obvious road.
Sergeant Harms, who had been riding in the truck behind his, caught up with Colling as he joined Gambelli and the other men, who had left the passenger car and were gazing around at the mist-covered forest surrounding them. They too had noticed the British vehicle and were discussing it among themselves, their breath making clouds as they spoke.
When a figure exited the truck and walked towards them, they stopped talking and watched the man who was approaching them. As he drew closer, the insignia on his shoulders was visible, and they recognized that he was a British officer. He was not wearing an overcoat, but his jacket was pulled close around his neck, and a black and white checked muffler covered his throat. He wore one of the standard British canvas holsters with a side arm attached to a lanyard. His nose and ears were red with the cold.
“Cheerio, chaps,” he said, his breath blowing a cloud of vapor. “May I speak with your officer?”
Staff Sergeant Gambelli touched the rim of his helmet with his finger in a loose approximation of a salute, and answered nonchalantly, “I’m NCO-I-C, sir. No officer.”
“Ah, very well, Sergeant,” answered the British officer, eyeing Gambelli’s chevrons, then sweeping his gaze over the other men, “My name is Pritchard, Major Pritchard. Am I right to imagine that you chaps are on your way to Italy?”
“Yessir,” replied Gambelli.
“And what city, might I ask?”
“Milano,” said Gambelli, using the Italian pronunciation.
“Splendid. I don’t suppose I might prevail upon you to take a bit of mail to Milan for me?”
“Mail, sir?”
“Ah…yes, Sergeant. Actually, it’s a bit of parcel post, if you know what I mean.”
“Not exactly, sir.”
Major Pritchard smiled broadly, as if indulging a small child, “Well, actually, Sergeant, I could make it worth your while, you and your lads here, to take something to Milan for me.”
Gambelli smiled back, “And I guess I’m not gonna know what the ‘parcel post’ is, right?”
“That would be correct, Sergeant.”
“How much, Major?”
“How much what, Sergeant?”
“Well…both, how much do you want us to carry, and how much will you pay?”
“Quite,” said Pritchard, “My lorry over there has the cargo in its rear, and I and my sergeant will ride along, in the passenger car, of course, and we will require you to give us a lift to a place in Milan.”
“And how much for the fare?” asked Gambelli.
“How does 10,000 Lire sound?”
Gambelli was about to answer when Colling interrupted, “Sarge, could we talk about this?”
“Yeah, sure. Excuse us, Major.”
Once at a distance from the British major that Colling decided was out of earshot, he pulled his fellow American soldiers into a huddle around him. Colling spoke first, “Sarge, guys, the Major here has got something he wants smuggled into Italy real bad, and 10,000 Lire is only $250.00. Frankly, I do not want to take the risk of going to the stockade or an Italian jail for a lousy forty bucks apiece. I say we ask him for 300,000 Lire and see what he says, that’s 50,000 apiece. If he comes back with a decent counter-offer, we can take it, but I think whatever it is he’s carrying, it’s worth a lot more than six or seven grand.”
Gambelli nodded his head in approval, and the other men followed suit. They walked back to where the Major was standing, and Gambelli spoke, “We got official seals, so we can open our trucks and reseal ‘em after your stuff is inside. We got travel papers to clear us to Milan with no searches. That’s worth a lot. We want 300,000 Lire, no more, no less.”
Without the least hesitation, Pritchard said, “Done. Let’s get my ‘stuff’ as you call it, transferred right away. No telling how long a stop we have here, and time is of the essence.”
The British vehicle was quickly pulled alongside the tracks, and while the Major and Gambelli watched, the British sergeant and the other Americans rapidly unloaded a series of crates of various shapes and sizes and handed them up into the rear Henschel. Colling guessed that some contained paintings, based on their flat shape, and it was easy to further surmise that the others contained sculpture or similar objects. Colling had broken the seal on the truck’s doors when it was opened, and once the cargo was all inside, he re-applied a new seal.
The British sergeant drove the English vehicle across the tracks and into the woods, and a few moments later came loping towards the train. He reached the passenger car just as the train began to move, and was clambering up its steps when the car jerked forward. Inside, Colling lifted a battered coffepot from the coal stove in one end of the third-class railway car and poured himself a mug of what he discovered was bitter-tasting ersatz brew. The taste was abominable, but the warmth he felt when he drank was welcome. Gambelli and Smith were out on the flatbeds, riding with the Henschels. The two British soldiers took seats at the far end of the car, leaving the Americans clustered around the stove. There was little apparent inclination to speak, and soon Colling’s three companions and the British sergeant were asleep. Colling sipped his coffee while Pritchard stared out the window.
The inspection of the Henschels when they crossed the Italian border at the Brenner Pass was as perfunctory as that they had experienced when leaving Germany for Austria, but actually gaining approval to proceed took more time. The Italian customs guards believed themselves obliged to notify the American Military Police to come look at the U.S. travel authorization documents, which took time. Then the British Military Police were summoned to review Major Pritchard’s papers, which took even more time. Eventually, everything was found to be in order, and after a glance at the seals on the trucks’ doors, the Italian guards cleared the two flatbed cars. More time passed as the Italians examined the other six freight cars making up the train, but eventually, they waved them forward into Italy.
They skirted the Trentino Altobegan, passing through Bressanone, Bolzano and Trento, then turning west towards Brescia, past Bergamo, and then into Milan. Despite Ferguson’s warnings about partisan activity, the journey was uneventful. The bitter cold gradually abated, but it remained cold enough for the men to wear their overcoats when outside the passenger car. They were able to take off the heavy coats only when the train pulled into a station on the eastern outskirts of the city, just as they finished eating their breakfast of K rations. The trucks were driven off the railway cars, and Major Pritchard squeezed into the Henschel that contained his cargo, while his sergeant rode in the other.
Pritchard directed them through the streets of Milan. He seemed familiar with the city, and confident that he knew where he was going. After many twists and turns, he pointed out a walled compound and ordered Smith to pull the truck up to the double wooden doors in its arched gateway. Pritchard alighted from the Henschel and pulled the bell cord dangling beside the entrance. After a short conversation with someone through a small barred window in the door, the doors swung wide and Pritchard motioned them inside.
Colling cut the seal on the truck’s rear doors and the gang of Italians who appeared to unload the vehicle soon had removed all of the Major’s crates and boxes and carried them into the building. When the last item had been handed down from the Henschel, Colling closed, locked and resealed it. Major Pritchard pulled a thick roll of Italian currency from inside his jacket and counted out thirty new 10,000 Lire banknotes and handed them to Gambelli. The Americans climbed back into their trucks and drove out of the compound.
Gambelli had to stop and ask directions to the address of a dealer in wines and liquors whose name they had been given by Sergeant Gaetano. The address turned out to be a run-down warehouse located north of the Milan city limits. They backed the trucks up to one of the large doors at one side of the building, and Sergeant Gambelli went in search of the proprietor. When the Italian appeared, walking beside Gambelli, he was talking and gesturing excitedly. Gambelli waved his hand for Colling to join them.
“He says he can only pay 400 Lire per barrel for the beer,” explained the sergeant. “Ferguson’s buddy gave us a bum steer.”
“Does he speak English?” asked Colling.
“I don’t know,” replied Gambelli, but the Italian interrupted by responding that he understood a little English.
“My name is Colling, Signore. What is yours, please?”
“Caltineri, Mr. Colling. Caltineri.”
Speaking formally to impress the Italian, Colling lamented, “I so regret that we will have to take this good German beer that we have brought all the way to Italy to the second buyer that was recommended to us. Adio, Signor Caltineri.”
Colling turned as if leaving, gesturing to Gambelli to do the same, when Caltineri asked them to stop. Colling responded that they must be on their way, that they could get a better price elsewhere. The Italian asked Colling to reconsider, and after a few minutes of bargaining back and forth, the Italian offered 600 Lire per barrel. Colling countered with 900 Lire, and Caltineri told him to take his beer and leave. Again, however, as Colling turned away, the Italian called him back. Fifteen more minutes of haggling, and they had settled on a price of 720 Lire, and Caltineri took Gambelli to his office to be paid. The Sergeant returned with a large wad of Italian banknotes in his hand, which he and Colling re-counted. It came to 180,000 Lire.
While they were counting the money, Caltineri had shouted for his workers to help unload the trucks, and as they worked, had one of his men bring a bottle of Chianti for he and the Americans to share while they watched his men haul the beer barrels into the warehouse. The wine was not to Colling’s taste, but Gambelli and the other soldiers repeatedly emptied their glasses as they toasted Italy, King Victor Emmanuel, Harry Truman and the United States of America.
While the consumption of the Chianti was taking place, Colling strolled around the yard and took the opportunity to look through the warehouse doors to satisfy his curiosity. He saw stacks of crates with stenciled labeling that he assumed to be Italian wines, cardboard boxes marked Schenley’s and Old Granddad, and other containers that he recognized as brands of Scotch, Irish and Canadian whiskies. Caltineri was obviously an important purveyor of alcoholic beverages. The Italian noticed Colling’s interest in his inventory, and came and stood beside him, “Very nice, yes?” Caltineri asked.
“Very nice. I have some Lire of my own that I might use to buy some Italian spirits to re-sell in Germany, perhaps.”
“I have just the thing, Signor Colling, Torre d’Oro. It is a fine, how you say, liguore, clear gold in color, an anisette. Very expensivo when the impost is paid.”
“How much, Signor Caltineri?”
“What I have has no impost stamps.”
“No tax has been paid, then?”
“Correct.”
“I will be immediately removing it from Italy, so there should be no tax.”
“True. You are very perceptive. Perhaps also because you are American soldier, this will be even more possible.”
“How much?”
“400 Lire per bottle.”
Colling scoffed, “Ridiculous. Americans will buy nothing that sells for $10.00 a bottle. I can pay 100 Lire and still make money when I sell for 200 Lire.”
The Italian huffed as if insulted, “Impossible. I can ask no less than 300.”
The bargaining continued, with Caltineri ultimately agreeing to sell a case of twelve bottles of the liqueur for 1500 Lire. Colling asked for thirty cases, and handed over the five banknotes that he had received from Gambelli as his share from Major Pritchard. Caltineri pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and returned five large 1,000 lire notes to Colling. He then ordered his men to load the Torre d’Oro onto one of the Henschels. As they did so, Colling asked to open some of the cases at random and verify their contents. All the bottles were sealed and appeared to be filled with the gold liqueur.
Sergeant Gambelli had observed the loading of the Italian liqueur, and asked Colling as he was pad-locking the doors of the Henschel, “What you up to, Colling?”
“Just making a little investment, Sarge. I bought some Torre D’Oro. I may be able to sell it in Germany when we get back.”
“Hey, Torre D’Oro is good stuff. My Mama always used to get a bottle for Christmas, when she could afford it.”
Caltineri gave them directions to the factory where they were to pick up the windows, and after a short drive, they pulled into its walled storage yard. Several long open sheds, which seemed to have been recently constructed, took up most of the space in the compound. About half were stacked with prefabricated building components, including doors, lintels, and windows. When Sergeant Gambelli presented himself at the factory office, he found that they were expected, and the manager led him to one of the sheds, where there were rows of crates of complete window frames lined up. As the Italian checked them off against his order sheets, the Americans, with the help of two laborers that the manager had called, passed the windows into the trucks. Colling stationed himself inside the Henschel with his liqueur, making sure that the cargo was stacked around the cases of bottles to protect them from damage.
Once the trucks were loaded, Gambelli settled accounts with the factory manager. When the staff sergeant climbed up into the cab of the leading Henschel, he told Colling and Smith, the driver, that they had had to pay 92,000 Lire, which was more than they had expected, but they were still left with 88,000 Lire. Gambelli counted out 30,000 Lire as Sergeant Ferguson’s share, and tucked it inside his field jacket. He tried splitting the remaining money into six equal shares, but since the smallest denominations were 1000 Lire, he had two stacks of bills with only 9,000 Lire, while the other four contained 10,000 Lire each. Colling told him to give him 8,000 Lire, and once the Italian currency was exchanged into dollars, the other men could each give him $8.00. The staff sergeant couldn’t follow the calculations that Colling was making, so Colling asked Gambelli for a piece of paper and wrote out the figures. By showing that converting the 58,000 Lire into dollars would give each man about $242.00, and that Colling’s 8,000 Lire would be only $200.00, Gambelli saw that Colling would still come out slightly behind the other men. Colling brushed off Gambelli’s suggestion that the other men contribute more than $8.00, explaining that he thought he would make more than enough from selling the Torre D’Oro. Gambelli agreed that the money they had received from Major Pritchard was by far the more lucrative transaction, and that the profit from the sale of the beer was secondary.
They were driving through Milan towards the railway terminal when Gambelli suggested that they stop and find some wine and women before their return journey. The train north to Austria was not due to leave until 21:00, and there was ample time to enjoy the pleasures of Italy.
Smith readily agreed, and at the next street corner, he pulled the truck to the curb so that Gambelli could put his head out the window and ask a male passer-by for the whereabouts of the nearest bordello. After a short conversation in Italian, the staff sergeant pointed ahead of them, saying that he had been given the address of the best whorehouse in Milan.
The men in the truck behind them undoubtedly wondered where Sergeant Gambelli was going, but they dutifully followed the first Henschel as it wove its way through the streets of Milan. The house that Gambelli was seeking was on one side of a small square that proved an ideal place for parking their vehicles. A tavern occupied the ground floor, and the crew of the second truck at first thought it was Gambelli’s destination, until the staff sergeant explained otherwise.
As Gambelli started to lead the men across the square, Colling suggested, “Sarge, somebody better stick with the t