Texas Nights - Book 13 of the Damned of the 2/19th

M997 Failure

Charlie Company Area
15th Forward Support Battalion
Fort Hood, Texas
United States of America
23 September, 1991
1300 Hours

Most of Charlie had been sent down to the motor to PMCS (Preventive Maintenance Checks and Services) on vehicles they'd done just  that to, or to inventory ambulances and vehicles. The enlisted knew it was make-work, I knew it was make-work, but my fellow officers were convinced that any higher brass that wandered by would think everyone was constructively occupied instead of just going through the motions of doing the same inconsequential tasks they had been doing.

This new "Peacetime Army" was a joke.

I wandered through the front part of the motorpool, noticing it was almost deserted except for three NCO's clustered up and talking to each other by the motorpool bay doors. I was pretty noticable at a distance, so they didn't mistake me for an enlisted and yell at me as I walked back to where the vehicles were lined up dress right dress.

Specialist Donovan was following me, carrying my plastic folder full of paperwork. At formation he'd been wearing a starched uniform and I'd sent him back to get a clean uniform without any wrinkles instead. At the back of the formation, where the rest of the enlisted, the NCO's, and my fellow officers could hear, I'd lectured him on how starch and ironing ruined the thermal masking built into the uniforms.

The irritation shown by the NCO's and Officers who looked at starched uniforms as proof their soldiers were amazing or whatever was a balm to my soul.

I saluted the few soldiers who saw me, told one soldier to get back to working on the engine not salute me, and eventually got to where Humvee-Five was located. I tossed the key to the lock that was on the chain around the steering wheel to Donovan.

"Pull the fuses for the fuel pump and ignition wires," I let him know the fuse numbers, pointing out the fuse box, before walking back to the front of the vehicle. I undid the catch for the hood before walking around to repeat the action. I pulled the hood up and went to work. I had brought a compression gauge with me from my own toolkit and wanted to check cylinder pressure.

I knew the acceptable pressures by heart already.

Disconnecting the coil took me a moment, same with the glow plug wires. I pulled the first glow plug, threaded in the compression gauge, and walked back over to Donovan.

"All right, crank the engine four revolutions," I told him.

"How can I tell?" He asked.

"I'll signal," I told him, holding up my hand and walking to the front to watch the gauge.

He cranked the engine till I closed my fist, then stopped. I jotted down the numbers, and swapped the gauge to the next hole. Not in line, but rather in firing order.

All in all it took about ten minutes to check the compression. Thankfully, it all checked out, so I knew that the core of the engine was fine as far as compression went.

One of the mechanics had told me that a big thing with the Gen-One HMMWV was also the compression sleeves around the piston.

Sure, the vehicle had problems, but during Desert Storm it had proven its worth, and let's be honest, the Dodge CUC-V was a piece of junk too. Well, not the Gypsy Wagon. That thing was a champ, and the only vehicle that probably, maybe, survived Desert Storm out of Actual's vehicles.

Donovan and I spent about two hours working on Five, until the engine was purring, the gauges worked, and I could check off the last of the deadline defects. There were a couple of defects left, the big one was that it was missing some of the tools.