As usual, my tact would immediately diffuse the situation into a small nuclear meltdown. “Wrong answer turkey lips,” I’d say. “We have the authority to break curfew, carry concealed and use this vehicle 24 hours a day because of our jobs.” Next came the answer that had also been rehearsed ad nauseam… “Sir don’t confuse your rank with MY AUTHORITY!”
That’s when we’d show our “get out of jail letter” that was always, always, always ignored. Fife would then invariably once again ask for the keys. That’s when the Masshole came out. “I’m going back to my dinner Fife, call your supervisor and have him explain it to you or I’ll explain it to him…and be sure to use small words.”
See what I mean, you just can’t be nice to some people. Soon a supervisor would show up and threaten to take us into custody until one of their officers would come and diffuse the situation and allow us to go on our merry way. The Panamanians would look upon this with quiet amusement. I’m sure they were thinking, “how the hell did we get our asses kicked by these “pinche payasos.”
One night after we returned to our house in Chepo we got a message that we needed to be back at our base on the Atlantic side (Ft. Davis). But I lived on Ft.Gulick (Espinar) and thought it would be easier to drive across late at night, sleep at our quarters and hit the meeting early. Wrong answer.
The usual scenario played out at the gate: some young pimply-faced shithead wanted me to “Exit the vehicle, leave your keys in it and walk to your quarters; you have broken curfew and you will have to answer for it.” With that, pimple-face got a smirk. That smile went to shock at my response.
“Hey Junior, go F*** yourself, call your Lieutenant and tell him to meet me at my quarters.” With that, I told him my quarters’ address and stomped the gas. Charming Charlie, that’s me.
I lived in a small cul-de-sac right behind the swimming pool known as “the pit.” I pulled into my driveway and could see back at the gate the blue lights approaching. I walked into the house and got a beer from the fridge and walked back outside. My roommate, Wade Chapple, had just arrived in himself. I told him what happened and he started to laugh.
Wade told me that he had almost the same conversation about two minutes before me. So, we walked out into the driveway and here comes not one but two MP cars tearing into the cul-de-sac with blue lights blazing. The MP Lieutenant was cool and when we showed him our letters of authorization, he asked, “This is all in order, so why didn’t you guys just explain it to our gate guards?” We looked at each other and laughed. Wade tried to explain that we’d done exactly that countless times in the few months that we’d been doing this mission and it would invariably fall on deaf ears.
Rather than things simmering down, they only got worse. Whenever we were in Panama City, we’d have MPs on us faster than a speeding bullet. Things got really heated one night: I had gone into town with “Papa Joe” Pinerro and we were grabbing dinner to-go at a chicken place. Joe was an LA County Sheriff, a Sergeant Major in an SF National Guard unit and a tremendous guy. He was assigned to us as someone who actually knew police work. He was invaluable.
While we were paying, the same MP who had jerked us around a couple of times had stopped and was harassing some Navy intel type girls. The MPs had exited their vehicle and were across the street reading the riot act to them. I looked at Joe and asked: “Did they leave their vehicle running with the doors unlocked?” He laughed and said, “here we go again.”
I walked out in the street, reached in the vehicle and turned the key off and closed the door quietly, I then walked back to wait with Papa Joe in front of the chicken place. I then hit the lock button which made an audible beep. That got their attention. With my back to the street, I heard them rush back to the vehicle and begin looking around. With my back still turned, I raised my arm and began spinning the keys around on my finger.
The young SP4 was livid….”I’ll take those keys…RIGHT NOW!” I replied in a low voice: “Please lower your voice when addressing an officer, and I’ll be happy to give you back your keys…as soon as you write yourself a ticket for leaving your government vehicle running and unsecured.” That started a shitstorm with MP guys in uniform screaming at the ones out of the vehicle. It looked like the mess it was. And right in the midst of it, some enterprising Panamanian kid began washing our vehicle. I had to laugh.
That little fiasco went all the way up the chain. John, Papa Joe and I had to go see General Steele who was in charge of our operation and the guy who signed our authorizations in the first place. He was on the phone with the Colonel in charge of the MPs. Each promised the other that the BS would stop.
About a week later John and I went to Clayton to have vehicle maintenance done. We were there early and hit the gym. We began talking with an older guy…and low and behold, it was the Colonel in charge of the MPs. He gave us the sideways glance at first, but things got better and we walked out of the gym pretty laid back. As we were walking, what do we see, another junior G-man writing us a ticket for “unauthorized use of a government vehicle.” The Colonel told the MP to tear it up. We just smiled and as we drove away, I winked at the kid and mouthed the words “F*** off” as clear as day. That was the end of the BS until I left and someone else took over about two months later. Why can’t we all just get along?
Later, the Navy intel girls became frequent guests out in Chepo, doing whatever they were doing. They’d visit the Police HQs who were as confused as we were as to what the hell they were doing there. To this day, I still don’t know what they were doing. All the stuff they asked the police made no sense. But whatever, they never interfered with what we were doing and they’d always drop us a bottle of rum “Old # 7” whenever they’d come calling. That’s what I call interservice cooperation.
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