I am working as a substitute teacher in my local elementary school. At the time of this story, I was asked by my administration to be the one-on-one aide to a first-grade girl. What started out as a two-week trial period became a permanent position during the last month and a half of the school year. 

This story happens around Memorial Day. The class had just learned about the importance of the holiday, and why they get a day off from school because of it. My little girl has finished her work and is quietly drawing a picture.

First Grader: “I’m drawing a soldier in the army next to an American Flag, Mrs. [My Name]!”

Me: “You are very good at drawing! [Husband] is the army, too.” 

The student gets really serious at this and puts one hand on her heart and the other on my arm.

First Grader: “Did he die with honor?”

Me: *Trying not to laugh.* “Well, [First Grader], he’s still alive, so no!”

First Grader: “But, when he does, he will be honored for it?”

Me: “Yes. He will receive recognition for his time in the army.”

At this point, the rest of the kids in our group begin asking questions about my husband’s job. I explained that his main job is a broadcast technician, but we were sent to the current area as part of his recruiting assignment.

Later that day, I told the story to the staff in the lounge, and when my husband picked me up from work that afternoon, I told him that my little girl was apparently planning his funeral!

I used to manage a lumber yard. An older guy comes in and tells my employee:

Customer: “I will take one sheet of finished veneer to match what’s in my trailer.”

After taking a look, my employee lets him know:

Employee: “Sorry, sir, we don’t sell that and don’t have a vendor for it, but there’s a specialty store nearby that can probably source it for you.”

Customer: “Are you an American or an American’t?”

My employee decided instead of going off on this guy and risking his job, he should just walk away and find me to deal with it (the correct thing to do). 

I come back to the customer fully expecting him to change the story. Instead, he told me the exact same thing that happened. Then he went on to tell me:

Customer: “I served in the military! My own men would have shot and killed me if I didn’t obey orders! In a retail store, the customer gives orders, and the employees follow them.”

Me: “One, this isn’t the military. Two, we can’t sell you something we don’t carry and don’t have a vendor for, and three, I don’t appreciate you asking my employee if he’s an American when he served in the Army carrying fallen soldiers’ coffins and protecting the tomb of the unknown soldier.”

The customer, not expecting that answer, was left to just mumbling under his breath about younger generations not respecting their elders and that he’d never shop at our store again.

Related:
A Lack Of Military Intelligence, Part 6
A Lack Of Military Intelligence, Part 5
A Lack Of Military Intelligence, Part 4
A Lack Of Military Intelligence, Part 3
A Lack Of Military Intelligence, Part 2

In the Army, I was stuck somewhere for over a month, so I helped out with a lot of things. This was just before and during the invasion of Iraq. This guy was in charge of tracking vehicles that were going overseas and their statuses. He did all the math by hand and entered it into a spreadsheet.

Me: “Hey, I can set up the spreadsheet to do all that for you.”

Guy: “It’s better to do it by hand, because then I can remember everything easier.”

I dropped it fast; it wasn’t my problem.

For some reason, immediately after that, he seemed to hate my guts. I was trying to walk into the large temporary motor pool via the gate by his office, but he walked out and locked it, then went back in. I thought maybe he didn’t see/hear me, though it was odd to lock the gate in the middle of the day. 

I then walked all the way around to the vehicle gate on the other side (probably about a quarter mile or more, it was a large, fenced area), and I could see him pop back out of his office building and unlock the gate again. One of the mechanics saw what was going on, and he just said:

Mechanic: “That guy really doesn’t like you, does he?”

I explained why I thought it was happening:

Me: “Maybe he felt I was undermining him?”

Mechanic: “I guess that’s what you get for critiquing a man’s performance in the sheets.”

When I moonlighted at a pizza delivery place, I worked at a store where half of the delivery area was for an Army base. This was before computer ordering, and even before caller ID or cell phones.

On New Year’s Day, I was scheduled to work the early shift, since my regular job was closed. We expected a slow day. However, we got an order call right as we opened for business at 11 AM.

Me: “Thank you for calling [Pizza Store]. This is [My Name]. May I have your phone number for the order?”

A woman speaks, sounding hungover and talking to someone else.

Caller: “…what’s your phone number?… Um, [number].”

Me: “Okay, thank you. What would you like to order?”

Caller: “Umm… we’d like a… medium pepperoni and black olive pizza. How much is that?”

Me: “With tax, that’ll be $10.44. Is this for delivery or pick-up?”

Caller: “Delivery…”

Me: “Okay, what is your address?”

Caller: *To someone else again.* “…what’s your address? …Huh? …Okay, it’s Building 1601, Apartment A?…”

This is an enlisted soldier’s quarters on the army base.

Me: “Okay, so we have a medium pepperoni and black olive pizza going to 1601-A on [Army Base]. The total again is $10.44.”

Caller: “I’m on [Army Base]?”

Me: “That is the address you gave me. Do you want to verify?”

Caller: *To someone else.* ‘We’re on the army base? You’re in the army? PFC!? Oh, s***!”

Me: “Ma’am? Are you completing the order?”

Caller: “…yes, go ahead and send it.”

I finish the order form and send it to our pizza maker on duty. I am also the first delivery driver, so I end up taking the pizza I just handled.

I am at the door of the barracks, and am answered by a very young, probably nineteen-year-old, PFC.

Me: “Hello, I have your pepperoni and black olive pizza. That will be $10.44.”

The PFC is thumbing through a wad of cash, giving me $12 and telling me to keep the change. Behind him, I see a much older woman looking rather chagrined. I’m thinking she got picked up at a New Year’s Eve party and wasn’t too cognizant of who she was hooking up with.

When I was four or five, I lived with my parents on the military base where my father worked. As part of the Christmas celebrations, there was the inevitable Christmas party for the kids of the military families on the base.

This involved an evening of partying, finger food, dancing, games, and then… a visit from Santa!

Santa would sit at the front of the dance floor, and kids would sit with their parents around the room. Santa would pull a gift out of the box and read the name out, and the lucky child would go over, take the gift, have their photo taken with Santa, and go back to their parent.

Imagine being the child who is last to be called, sitting there and watching as everyone else gets their turn, the anticipation building, waiting.

And imagine being the child whose name still hasn’t been called when Santa reaches the end of the gifts in his bag — literally turns it inside out, says, “And that’s it!”, bids us all a Merry Christmas, and exits stage left.

That year, I was that child. It had never happened before, but someone had screwed up royally. As the realisation dawned on me that Santa had forgotten me, I can still remember the hushed “Oh, no” from my father behind me.

I don’t remember much about what happened next (probably crying my eyes out), but right after the party, we ended up meeting Santa in a corridor, where he apologised.

Santa: “I’ve had another look in my sack, and I found a £5 note for you!”

That was a lot of money in the 1980s, and a fortune to a young child.

Santa: “My elves accidentally left your proper gift at your house; it’s there now waiting for you!”

And indeed, when we got home, my mother handed me a gift saying it had been dropped off by a very confused elf.

Years later, I brought it up with my parents, who filled me in on the fallout. Someone had indeed left me off the gift list despite me being on the attendee list, so my gift was never even purchased. They got into a lot of trouble for it, including having a military promotion suspended (you do not screw with military families in the military), and their senior also got into trouble.

For future events, two people had to independently check both the gift list and the attendee list, and the gift was shown to the parent before the party to ensure that no child was ever forgotten again.