Because they had so many off-post and other musical duties most Army Bandsmen in the 1950’s were exempted from “extra duties” such as K.P., Guard Mount, and “work details” -  Most being the key word in that sentence.   But the “Command Band” of the entire Fifth Army, the band that eclipsed all regimental and division bands in that Army -  the Fifth Army Band; wasn’t part of that “most.”  Why? -  Well, we were never sure but we believed it was because our C.O./Director was an incompetent leader who cringed at the thought of standing up to any officer of higher rank than a Second Lieutenant.  “The Brass” who ran Ft. Sheridan saw in the Fifth Army Band a pool of men they could tap into freely whenever they needed  a warm body or two. 

The most irksome of the “extra duties” was KP.  For that we arose at 0430 and trudged to the Mess Hall to be a lackey for the cooks and Mess Sergeant until he released us in the early evening.  Any veteran who “pulled” K.P. will know how disgustingly exhausting it was.  

Periodically though, a request for “Band Bodies” came through that was interesting and fun.  Like most army posts Ft. Sheridan had a place to keep its “bad boys” for a limited length of time.  They called it “The Stockade.”   The Stockade was intended to be “home” for miscreants whose deeds were against regulations but not especially heinous.  Soldiers whose transgressions were criminal enough to get them a lengthy sentence were transferred to a larger, more secure facility at a now-long-defunct post near Neosho MO called “Camp Crowder.” 

When there were enough long-timers to make it cost-effective a small group of bona fide, trained M.P.’s, whose numbers were augmented by a few members of The Fifth Army Band would then escort them from Ft. Sheridan to Camp Crowder.

In the Korean era bandsmen typically got the most basic of Basic Training before picking up their instruments and joining the band.  We learned to shoot the M-1 rifle, threw one live grenade, fired one blast from a “Bazooka,” learned enough about a machine gun to know where the trigger was, spent a day learning how to “parry, thrust, and recover” with a bayonet on the end of our rifle (our drill instructor told us to pretend the “dummy” we were stabbing was him).  After that and a lot of marching the army said we were soldiers and sent us out to wherever duty called.  We never even saw a .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol. 

However, when we bandsmen reported to the M.P.’s for prisoner escort duty they strapped a web belt around our waist to which was attached a loaded 1911 Model Colt .45 semi-automatic pistol and we were ready to roll.  “Dirty Harry” hadn’t been created yet but I believe I gave a fair preview of him as I, in the company of a enough M.P.’s to be safe swaggered alongside a group of handcuffed prisoners as we herded them from place to place.

 I served on the prisoner escort detail twice.  The first time we took the “bad boys” to a Army C-47 cargo plane fitted with seats.  As we were securing them for the ride I locked eyes with one of the prisoners; a young Black man whom I knew was from East St. Louis.  We had been in the same platoon for Basic Training!  Seeing the brass button on my collar (we wore  music lyre “brass” indicating that we were bandsmen) and knowing what we’d been taught during “basic,” he nodded toward the .45 on my hip and with a mocking smile sarcastically asked, “Do you know how to use that thing?”  At that point I reckoned the best answer was silence so I just gave him what I hoped was a very “hard-assed” stare and went on with the business at hand.

The trip was uneventful – no airborne uprisings were threatened or staged.  We delivered the hapless unruly soldiers to the Army Disciplinary Barracks at Camp Crowder MO.   I returned to Ft. Sheridan and turned in my weapon - unfired - nay, not even unholstered – knowing no more about it than I did when the M.P. handed it to me.

Sometime later my name was picked to escort another contingent of disobedient “Dogfaces” to Camp Crowder.  It would’ve fed my ego to think I was chosen because of my sterling performance on the previous trip but in truth I knew it more that I was one of the more expendable members of the Fifth Army Band.  The Army elected to take this group via rail. At that time rail travel was still a popular way to travel. 

We unloaded the handcuffed prisoners off the bus, formed them up into a “column of two’s, and escorted them through Chicago’s bustling Union Station.  At the sight of a large group of handcuffed men being escorted by armed soldiers the sea of people in the lobby parted like the Red Sea before the fleeing Hebrews.  As for me, I admit to having enjoyed the feeling of participating in such a “dangerous” enterprise. 

We had an entire railway coach to ourselves.  We settled the prisoners into their seats and counted noses.  The M.P. in charge placed we guards strategically throughout the coach, two to a seat, so there would be eyes on all the offenders.  There were other coaches carrying civilians and we would be making all the routine stops as we crossed Illinois and Missouri.  There was always a chance, however slight, that a prisoner might try to escape and we had been warned that there were dire consequences in store for guards who lost a prisoner.   

 The “Top Cop” told us to sleep in shifts so that one person in every seat would always be on guard.  It was going to be a long night on the train and I truly was a little on edge.  We obviously weren’t hauling “Mother’s Darlings,” and they knew they weren’t headed for a spa.  Something could go wrong. 

My seatmate, a real M.P., wanted the window seat so I was seated with my sidearm facing the aisle.   All went well as we passed through the little towns of downstate Illinois.  When darkness fell the lights in the coach were dimmed but never extinguished.    Somewhere during the night during a time when it was my turn to sleep I became groggily aware that the train was making a stop.   A bunch of civilians mistakenly entered our private coach and were already walking down the aisle looking for seats before the conductor could stop them.  Although I didn’t know it, while writhing around trying to get comfortable enough to sleep the holster into which my .45 Colt was tucked had slid down so that it was sticking out into the aisle.  As one of the “lost” passengers passed by my seat her suitcase brushed heavily against my gun holster.  In my half-asleep state of mind my first thought was that the prisoner seated behind me was trying to grab my pistol.  My reflexes kicked in before my thought processes and in one motion I stood up, turned around and reached down toward my holster. I was checking to see if my gun was still there, but to the young man behind me it must have looked like I was going to draw.  He shrunk wide-eyed back in his seat. When I realized what I’d done I embarrassedly sat back down. By that time adrenaline had me wide awake.  The M.P. sitting with me thought it was funny and said since I was wide awake he was going to get some sleep. 

The wandering civilians got out of our car and everything returned to normal.  We arrived in Joplin with no further incident, delivered our string of prisoners to a contingent of M.P.’s who herded them into a prison bus and took them on to whatever fate awaited them.

Was it coincidence that I was never again chosen for the “Prisoner Escort Detail” or did the M.P. in Charge strike me off the list of available Fifth Army Bandsmen?  I’ll never know.