I was dragged out of bed at five in the morning in a third world country because the army needed somebody to drive a truck.
This was not in my job description and they apologized for it. You don’t bring somebody thousands of miles to do KP or drive vehicles.
It was one hell of a truck.
Now it happens that I was raised on a brick plant so I COULD drive the thing. But what was interesting was that they just assumed I could drive it because I was an American. They think Americans can drive anything.
The reason I could drive it was because there is a subtle difference between the weight-to-value ratio of brick as compared to, say, Ming Dynasty vases. When you truck brick, that booger is HEAVY.
I have been repeatedly assured since then that heavy trucks had less than the one hundred and fifteen forward gears I remembered, every one of which required double-clutching. I still remember each of the 115 vividly.
On a two-lane highway, which was all we had, when you got up behind a slow driver you had to go back through the series again. I conceived a personal hatred for slow drivers that I retain today for those who cruise in the passing lane.
Well, I drove the truck, though I doubt it ever got over what I did to its transmission. I was told later that when it heard somebody with an American accent it would run away.
Recently, decades later, I finally realized why they assumed that any American could drive any truck. I was passing a pickup on an Interstate highway and it suddenly occurred to me that in many American movies they saw showed us driving pickups as easily as cars.
Obviously we saw no difference between cars and trucks.
I don’t blame them for making that mistake.
But I don’t think that poor truck ever forgave them.
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